Hexagram
by ErtheChilde
Summary: Believing his brothers to be trapped in Hell, Dean tries to give up hunting and live the apple pie life. The trouble is, his past continues to haunt him almost daily. Unbeknownst to him, Sam - and Adam - have mysteriously been sprung from the Cage. Not wanting to jeopardize Dean's chance at normal, Sam and Adam try to figure out what brought them back...and why. Post 5X22 /AR
1. The Road So Far

_**Hexagram**_

by ErtheChilde

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"_**This was never meant to happen, but seeing as how it has, we'll deal with it the same way we deal with everything else. Grit our teeth, dig in our heels and give Fate the finger."**_

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_Disclaimer:  
_This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Eric Kripke and The CW. No infringement on their respective copyrights is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books and graphic novels, are the sole creation of ErtheChilde and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. There may or may not be a curse in your future as well, so be warned. Remembered all things come in threes, good and bad. Plagiarizing is considered bad.

_Rating:_  
M for violence, coarse language, suggestive adult themes, blasphemy and tweaking the nose of the King of Hell. (Note: No spirits, shapeshifters, werewolves, demons or angels were harmed in the making of this fic.)

_Summary:_  
Endings are hard, and never perfect, but that's because nothing ever really ends. Not everyone gets the apple pie at the finale, and as Sam and Dean Winchester are to learn, stopping one Apocalypse doesn't mean that the Cosmos is finished with them.

_Warnings:__**  
**_**AU From 5x22 onward**_ – _Because Season Six and Seven have sucked, both in storyline and in what they've done to the characters.  
**Sam/Dean Alienation** – It will be a while before they meet up again, and then it'll be a while before they get over their resentment of each other.  
_**Pre-slash**_ – I haven't finalized the pairings yet, but I do know there will be _one definite slash pairing, but ABSOLUTELY NO WINCEST_. I don't even need to say how wrong that shit is. We'll see how things develop and once this season is completed I'll decide what to categorize the fic under.  
**Unabashed Bending of Various Religious Mythos – **Kripke's already made a mess of lots of myths, as a student of Classics and Religion I might as well have a go at it too.  
**Canon Season Six Onward References** – Occasionally, there was an episode or two that I liked from these seasons, so I will attempt to work those in. At such times, I will be using characters, situations and canon dialogue and will disclaim that prior to each chapter.  
**OCs**_ – _For the sake of story lines and creature-of-the-week, there will be original characters. Some of them will be female. Some of them will hook up with one or both of the guys as is in keeping with the series. Given fan-interest, some might even become regular secondary characters.  
**Occasional Use of Gender Neutral Pronouns** - i.e.: Ze/Zir/Zirself, etc. Because it's something I'm experimenting with.

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**Author's Note: **This chapter is the Teaser, so it's not vital to read. But if you want the whole "episode" experience, I would highly encourage it. **There is significant dialogue from the actual series in this chapter but is meant as a means of situating the reader, not for profit.**

**Music: **"Live Wire" by AC/DC

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**The Road So Far:**

_Images flick back and forth, painful in their intensity, although whether from sensory overload or the memory of the sinister, brilliant light, Sam isn't sure. The ground beneath him – or around him or in him – shakes._

_Light erupts from everywhere, prisms of colour solidifying and casting shapes into sharp relief. An ancient sigil lies before him, blood still pooled in the crevices that also shine with light. Someone clutches at him – _

_ "Sammy, let's go."_

_His brother's face swims into view – bone white, green eyes wide with dread – and the pulling sensation becomes more intense, memory juxtaposed with the tug of something far stronger. Voice blends with voice, past and present blurring together._

_Dean's trying to make him move, but Sam feels like he's rooted to the ground. He grips at his brother insistently, unable to look away from the light. "Dean – he's coming."_

_The light is brighter now, burning like a thousand suns. He's petrified. _

_"Come on!"_

_Sam is able to feel his limbs again, but even as they run, there's a sudden high-pitched noise. It's coming from the light. He squeezes his eyes shut, holding up one hand to block the glow and another to cover his ears. An ache in his knees tells him that his legs have given out._

_Any minute now and the brightness will finally become too much and he'll disintegrate – _

_They are standing inside a ramshackle house in a poor neighbourhood. The light is gone, but there is still pain radiating around and within Sam. He winces as the picture becomes clearer, and he sees the three angels standing before them. Zachariah is among them, his cold eyes wide with excitement and his mouth twisted into a triumphant sneer._

_ "Lucifer is powerful in ways that defy description. We need to strike now, hard and fast – before he finds his vessel," he says. "And when he touches down, we're talking Four Horsemen, red oceans, fiery skies – the greatest hits." He narrows his eyes at Dean, who is still beside Sam and looking unimpressed. "You can stop him, Dean, but you need our help."_

_The scene shifts again, a whirl of colours and voices that make Sam's head spin as he tries to focus on everything but only manages to pick out bits and pieces. They are standing in a storage space that still smells like John Winchester, the sharp tang of metal and blood and gun oil._

_"It's you, chucklehead," Zachariah simpers, his too-white-teeth wide in a shark's grin. "You're the Michael Sword."_

_There's a burning pain all around Sam, as though something is tearing him apart on a molecular level. He screams, but no sound comes out. The hurt grows even worse, like the corrosive burn of acid – _

_Lucifer, wearing his temporary face, regards Sam with the fondness a parent might have for a child. "You're the one, Sam. You're my vessel. My true vessel."_

_His refusal is cut off by a violent bout of nausea, but his stomach is empty and all he manages to do is dry heave uselessly. Flames flick at Sam, burning and melting his skin from his bones. He latches on to anything, any memory to distract him – _

_ "Screw the angels and the demons and their crap Apocalypse," Dean utters passionately as they sit in a hospital room, trying to cheer up Bobby. Their adopted father clenches his hands on his useless legs. "Hell, they want to fight away, they can find their own planet. This one's ours, and I say they get the hell off it. We take 'em all on. We kill the Devil – hell, we even kill Michael if we have to. But we do it our own damn selves."_

_For a moment, emotions and sensation block out the searing agony. Pride, warmth, faith, safety – Sam clings to those feelings with desperation, savoring the milliseconds that he holds them until they are clawed away from him again._

_Lucifer tears at his soul, trying to rend it like tissue paper, but Sam holds fast. It took Dean thirty years to break in Hell. It's damn well going to take that and more before Sam gives in –_

_ "There's someone besides Michael strong enough to take on Lucifer," Castiel says, looking as intent and determined as ever, a celestial warrior squished into a frail human body, sitting in the tiny hospital room. "Strong enough to stop the Apocalypse…the one who resurrected me…the one who began everything…I'm going to find God."_

_Hope. It is small, tenuous, but it is there – _

_The angel in the slight, old gardener's body looks at them with a deep pity that Sam feels even now. It feels as imprinted into his bones as the Enochian symbols Castiel carved there to protect him once. They do very little good here in the Cage._

_"God knows what the angels are doing. He knows that the Apocalypse has begun," Joshua tells them. "He just doesn't think it's his problem. God saved you already. He brought back Castiel. It's more than he's intervened in a long time. He's finished."_

_Waves of burning agony roll over Sam again, triumphant and exultant as his hopes are dashed by memory. He feels desolation, futility – _

_There is another surge, but he's ready for it, calling up more memories –_

_ "We'll find another way," Sam insists, as though willpower alone can make it so. "We can still stop all this, Dean."_

_His brother looks at him, incredulous, already prepared to give up but humouring him nonetheless. "How?"_

_"I don't know, but we'll find it. You and me, we'll find it."_

_Certainty in spite of everything, because of how many times they found that elusive Door Number Three– _

_"The Cage you sprung Lucifer from? It's still down there. And maybe, just maybe, you can shove his ass back in," the archangel Gabriel tells them, his voice coming in slightly grainy through the laptop speakers. "Not that it'll be easy. You gotta get the Cage open, trick my bro back into it – the key to the Cage? It's out there. Actually, it's keys, _plural_. Four keys – well, four rings. From the Horsemen. You get 'em all, you got the Cage – "_

_There is a flurry of images on the backs of Sam's eyelids – an angular man whose eyes sparkle with the delight over gory strife. He's being held down, unable to move, but still smirking at them. "You can't kill War, kiddos."_

_"Oh, we know," Dean grunts, as Sam darts forward and slams the Horseman's right hand against a cherry red mustang. There is the smooth _snikt_ sound of a switchblade and the harbinger's fingers are on the ground, ring clinking to the pavement._

_Sound and colour blur, and Castiel's voice intones, "_And then will come Famine, riding on a black steed. He will ride into the land of plenty and great will be the Horseman's hunger, for he is hunger. His hunger will seep out and poison the air_."_

_"I'm a Horseman, Sam," a shrivelled, sunken man wheezes, his dry lips curled into a smirk. "Your power doesn't work on me."_

_"You're right," Sam hisses, and splotches of memory place him in a shady diner somewhere, and his entire body is pumped and he feels the demon blood singing within him, and even though the Horseman is smiling, Sam feels confident. He senses the demons residing in the shrunken form and tells him, "but it will work on them."_

_And he pulls, feels his strength ripping the souls out of the wizened body of Famine as the Horseman gasps in wordless pain. Black smoke vomits from every orifice of the creature and blood leaks down Sam's nose, and his vision swims but he is winning –_

_Until he isn't. _

_He writhes on the floor as disease wracks his body, devouring every spare bit of strength he has. Beside him, Dean convulses and he can't do anything to help him. Pestilence looks over at a struggling Castiel with a smirk, the doctor's meat grinning in a way that would never put a real patient at ease. "There's not one speck of angel in you, is there?"_

_And Castiel is moving, grabbing Sam's knife and slicing off the Horseman's ring finger with savage determination._

_"Maybe just as speck," he growls, and Sam feels a warm smugness and a wave of thankfulness before the scene changes again._

_"Death came for me," Bobby tells them, for all his gruffness still sounding a mite scared beneath the surface. He appears shrunken, even in the claustrophobic space of his study._

_"You?" Dean demands. "Why you?"_

_"Because I've been helping you, you sons of bitches!" Bobby snaps, and then looks meaningfully at Sam. "I'm one of the reasons you're still saying 'no'."_

_Shame and regret boil to the surface – _

_"So, you want to cram the Devil back in the box? Cunning scheme," Crowley chuckles, the sound of the demon's laughter echoing in the corners of Sam's mind. "I want in." At Sam and Dean's confusion, he considers the Colt in his hands carelessly. "Lucifer isn't a demon, remember? He's an angel – and angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him, you're just filthy bags of pus. If that's the way he feels about you, what can he think about us? To him we're just servants – cannon fodder. If Lucifer manages to exterminated humankind, we're next."_

_A wariness born of decades of hunting demons wars with self-preservation and the absolute need to succeed – _

_"Maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know," Dean's words are earnest and thoughtful, but laced with the iron Sam has always known and come to rely on. "I just know we're all we've got. More than that. We keep each other human."_

_Thankfulness. Hope. Love – _

_"The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this," Sam pronounces firmly. "Maybe I am on deck for the Devil, maybe the same for you and Michael, maybe there's no changing that – but we _can_ stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick it's ass, and go down fighting – "_

_Readiness. Confidence – _

_ "Who exactly is supposed to come along and save these people?" Dean demands. "It was supposed to be us, but we can't do it."_

_"You can't do this to me!" Sam shoots back, angry and hurt. "I got one thing – _one thing_ – keeping me going. You think you're the only one white-knuckling it here, Dean? I can't count on anyone else! I can't do this alone!"_

_He feels wrenching desperation and a raw fear of what he knows is to come – _

_"If Lucifer burns this mother down, and I coulda done something about it, guess what – that's on me!" Dean shouts, trying to make him see reason, but all Sam sees is his brother trying to leave him – _

_Castiel appears in the midst of blowing papers and dried leaves, toting a mud-covered body. Even covered in grime, Sam recognizes who it is immediately._

_"That's our brother," he whispers._

_Along with disbelief, he feels a swell of something else. Something that has gone unnamed since they first found out about the younger man, something Sam didn't even voice and which died the day they cremated Adam. The ache is painful, but Sam wouldn't trade it for anything – _

_"These angels, they popped out of nowhere, and they tell me that I – I'm chosen," Adam explains, hesitant and wondering as though he still isn't used to the idea. "To save the world. Me and some archangel are going to kill the Devil. I'm his, uh, sword or vessel or something."_

_The ache turns to a sinking feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach, a sensation which grows worse when Castiel admits, "He is John Winchester's bloodline. Sam's brother. It's not perfect, but it's possible."_

_Frustration screams within him, because really, why can't they ever just win, once? It seems like whenever they turned around, someone is intent on screwing them over – _

_"How many people have we got killed, Sam?" Dean asks him, not really wanting an answer. "Mom, Dad, Jess, Jo, Ellen – should I keep going?"_

_"It's not like we pulled the trigger," Sam protests, knowing even as he says it that his argument is a weak one._

_"We might as well have. I'm tired, man. I'm tired of fighting who I'm supposed to be," Dean sighs. "I don't believe."_

_"In what?"_

_"In you. I mean, I don't. I don't know whether it's gonna be demon blood or some other demon chick or what, but…I do know they're gonna find a way to turn you. …You're angry, you're self-righteous. Lucifer's gonna wear you to the prom, man. It's just a matter of time…and when Satan takes you over, there's got to be somebody there to fight him, and it ain't gonna be that kid. So, it's got to be me."_

_It's as though someone has reached into his body and pulled out his heart. Sam wants to scream, but it hurts too much to even contemplate. Betrayal. Loss. Hopelessness – _

_"The answer is yes," Dean bites out as Sam and Adam choke blood onto the stainless marble floor of the beautiful room and Zachariah looks on dispassionately. "Do you hear me? Call Michael down, you bastard!"_

_Zachariah turns away, chanting in Enochian. The world begins to shake. "He's coming."_

_Sam only has eyes for Dean, and pain overtakes him that has nothing to do with the invisible knives shredding his lungs to pieces. He's about to watch everything he knows and loves about his brother vanish._

_And then Dean winks._

_New hope rallies within him – _

_Dean stabs the blade of the sword into Zachariah's head, up through his chin, watching calmly as the light that was once an angel bleeds out of him. Dean falls backward, but the light doesn't disappear. An ear-splitting noise joins the shaking, and they know that Michael is still coming for them._

_Dean is up, trying to get Adam and Sam out, stumbling and dragging – Sam is through, and in an instant Dean is as well – but the doors slam shut behind Sam and Dean, leaving Adam locked inside._

_Dean lunges back, tries to open the door from the outside, but Sam sees him wince, burned when he touches the doorknob. They hear Adam's cries for help from inside, and white light explodes out from the crevices. Once it fades and Dean can touch the door, they open it to find an abandoned room. "Adam?"_

_The sense of loss returns, magnified this time because Sam knows Adam will never be at peace now – _

_"I saw your eyes," Sam accuses. "You were totally rocking the 'yes' back there. So what changed your mind?"_

_"Honestly?" Dean snorts, and if the situation weren't so serious and if the world wasn't going to hell, Sam would call it a chuckle. "The damnedest thing. I mean, the world's ending, the walls are coming down on us, and I look over to you and all I can think about is, "This stupid son of a bitch _brought_ me here." I just didn't want to let you down." _

_Warmth floods his entire being the way Dean had looked at him then – like none of the betrayal and estrangement of the past year even happened. For that second, he has his brother back exactly the way he remembers_

_"Screw destiny, right in the face," Dean says decisively. "I say we take the fight to them, and do it our way."_

_Nagging suspicion, worry – _

_"You sold your soul?" Dean roars at Bobby._

_ "Oh, more like pawned it," Crowley corrects helpfully. "I fully intend to give it back."_

_Distrust and a lingering sense of doom hovers around them all like a cloud of smoke, but what is done is done – _

_"Michael has found another vessel," Castiel says, his voice the closest approximation of regret that an emotionless creature can muster. "It's your brother, Adam."_

_Pain, again – the pain at learning the truth. At least when they didn't know, there was the tiny, infinitesimal chance that Adam somehow got away from it all; or that he was sent back to Heaven to be at peace. Knowing is worse somehow – _

_"Remember that time you were possessed?" Sam asks Bobby hesitantly._

_"Yeah, rings a bell."_

_"How'd you do it? I mean, how'd you take back the wheel?"_

_Bobby frowns at him knowingly, an expression that clearly says he isn't fooling anyone. "Why are you asking, Sam?"_

_Sam takes a swig of beer, trying to be casual even though his hands are shaking. "Say we can open the Cage. Great. But then what? W-we just lead the Devil to the edge and get him to jump in?" He steels himself. "What if you guys lead the Devil to the edge and _I_ jump in?"_

_Voicing his worries in the form of a plan makes them more real, but still there is a nagging sense of him lying to himself. He's avoiding the real truth of what he was thinking – _

_"'Yes' to Lucifer, then jump in the hole," Castiel muses beside Sam, an odd fixture in the backseat of the car. It is the longest time they had spent any time together, only because Castiel is practically mortal now and forced to travel the human way. "It's an interesting plan."_

_"Go ahead and tell me it's the worst plan you've ever heard."_

_"But that's not what I think. You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. He resisted Michael. Maybe you could resist Lucifer," the angel says. He sobers. "Sam, if you say 'yes' to Lucifer and then fail…this fight will happen. And the collateral…it'll be immense."_

_Fear. The very primal sense of being afraid for his own self-preservation and having to remind himself that this is how it has to be – _

_"I'm in," Dean tells him heavily._

_"In with…?"_

_"The whole 'up with Satan' thing. I'm on board," his brother says, and seems to be swallowing something painful. "If this is what you want…is this really what you want?"_

_"I let him out. I got to put him back in," Sam says, his voice firmer than his resolve._

_Dean nods with pretended ease. "Okay. That's it then."_

_There is a sense of calm, a sense of accepting what is to come and relief at not having to fight it any longer. But even so, there is still something he needs to make sure of – _

_"This thing goes our way and I…Triple Lindy into that box…y-you know I'm not coming back," Sam murmurs gently, trying to see Dean's expression out of the corner of his eye without being too obvious about it. "You got to promise not to try to bring me back…Once the cage is shut, you can't go poking at it, Dean. It's too risky."_

_"As if I'm just gonna let you rot there!" Dean explodes, his former calm destroyed._

_"Yeah, you are," Sam tells him, sad but resolute. "You don't have a choice."_

_The look in his brother's eyes tell him exactly what he thinks about that – _

_"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" Even behind Lucifer's psychic screen, Sam can see Dean – leaning against the door of the Impala, uncaring that he has driven into the middle of a cemetery, in the middle of the battle meant to end all battles. Sam imagines his heart leaps with dismay and hope. There's that usual quirk of Dean's lips, although the gesture doesn't reach his eyes. He nods in Sam and Lucifer's direction. "Hey. We need to talk."_

_ "Dean, even for you, this is a whole new mountain of stupid," the Devil forces Sam to say._

_"I'm not talking to you," Dean retorts dismissively. "I'm talking to Sam."_

_"You're no longer the vessel, Dean," Michael-in-Adam's-body growls. "You've got no right to be here."_

_Dean's expression softens only incrementally. "Adam, if you're in there somewhere, I am so sorry."_

_"Adam isn't home right now," Michael replies coldly. _

_"Well, then you're next on my list, Buttercup," Dean retorts. "But right now, I need five minutes with _him_."_ _He inclines his head in Lucifer and Sam's direction._

_The absurd temptation to laugh is there, because even in the seriousness of the moment, Dean is still _Dean_ – _

_Sam feels when Castiel explodes, his grace still linked strongly enough to Heaven that it reverberates through every angel, even Lucifer. There is no time to mourn or notice the pain of the bullet striking him uselessly, and then he hears the fatal snap of Bobby's neck –_

_Blood and fury and anger – he experiences it all, and from behind the towering white pillar of fire that is Lucifer in his body, he can still see Dean._

_"Sammy – are you in there?" his brother gasps through his ruined lips and broken face._

_"Oh, he's in here, all right," Lucifer sneers through Sam's mouth. "And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones. Every single one. We're gonna take our time."_

_'The Hell we are - !' Sam snarls to no one, trapped in the prison of his mind, and he begins to fight in earnest._

_His body is drawing back for the final blow, the one he knows will shatter Dean's skull and steal the light from his eyes forever. And Dean is still watching him, still looking _at_ him, as though he can see right through Lucifer's wall. _

_As though he really can see him._

_"Sam – it's okay – it's okay – I'm here. I'm here – I'm not gonna leave you – not gonna leave you – "_

_It's the mantra of a broken, dying man and it makes Sam scream in fury from where he is trapped. He calls up every memory, every overwhelming myriad of feelings and images and rains down a last, desperate assault against Lucifer. _

_Just five minutes, he just needs five minutes –_

_And then there is nothing but clarity and he is himself again. He feels the coolness of the wind on his skin, smells the metallic tang of blood in the air._

_"It's okay, Dean," he hears himself say, smiling even though it pains him worse than any wound he has ever suffered. "It's going to be okay. I've got him."_

_But even as he says these words, he knows without a fraction of a doubt that nothing is okay._

_Because it suddenly hits Sam that he's really going to go through with this insane plan they came up with; he's about to jump into a portal to Hell, consigning himself to an eternity of torment and suffering._

_Anger. Sadness. Terror – _

_There are words and a chant and then the giant, sucking void that opens up right next to him. And Dean, up until the end, watching him with disbelief and sorrow and hope and every other emotion that he never liked to display because it might bring on a chick-flick moment – _

_"Sam!" Adam's face swims before him now, but it is Michael who speaks. "I have to fight my brother, Sam! Here and now! It's my destiny!"_

_"Fuck destiny," Sam wants to say, but Lucifer is clawing at his psyche, trying to get back into control, and talking right now might give the archangel the opening he needs. _

_And when Michael grabs them, his grip shattering Sam's humerus, Sam does the only thing he can – he holds tight and pulls the archangel in with him. Into the deep, unending black abyss that presses in on them with all the subtleness of a million flaming knives._

_The light of day disappears, and Sam knows with fatalistic certainty that it will be the last time he will see it. A cold prison in the deepest circle of Hell awaits him, and the destiny that was once been written about by Prophets will turn into an eternity spent in torture, neither living nor dead._

_Still, in that split second, even as the Devil rends his soul like tissue paper, he knows that he has done right._

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As I said, this chapter was the teaser and there wasn't much original stuff in here except for writing the emotions of, etc. I promise the rest of the fic is pretty much mostly mine, with the aforementioned deviations.

TBC


	2. 6x01 Conversations With Dead People

_**Hexagram  
**by erthechilde_

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"_**This was never meant to happen, but seeing as how it has, we'll deal with it the same way we deal with everything else: grit our teeth, dig in our heels and give Fate the finger." **_

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MUSIC:

"One" by Metallica

"Make Up Your Mind" by Theory of a Deadman

"After Forever" by Black Sabbath

"Bad Company" by Bad Company

"Over the Hills and Far Away" by Led Zeppelin

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The silence within the confines of the automobile is as sharp and accusing as a blade.

Not for the first time does Castiel doubt the decision to accompany his charge; if not for the deadened gleam in Dean Winchester's eyes, he might have let him be already. He knows that humans sometimes wish to suffer their grief alone, and he remembers from the debacle in Carthage that Dean falls into this category. Still, there is a glint in the man's eyes that forces aside his reservations; is too disturbingly similar to that of the tarnished soul Castiel raised from the pits of Hell.

The passenger seat is restricting and uncomfortable, not least of all because Castiel knows that his is not the body meant to dwell in it. Dean appears to derive some unconscious modicum of comfort from its occupation, however, and after the grim events of the day, Castiel is more than ready to provide at least that.

The lampposts lining the highway exude halos of bright, distorted light. Occasionally, this merges with the high beams of oncoming traffic, illuminating the interior of the car in such a way that makes Dean's skin look corpselike and his bloodshot eyes glassy. Raindrops fling themselves against the windshield, most likely reducing visibility for the mortal that has already gone thirty-six hours without sleep.

Dean shows no signs of pulling over.

Castiel is sure that if Sam were here, he would chide his brother for driving in his current condition.

Thoughts of Sam bring with them an increasingly familiar and uncomfortable ache. Regardless of the sensation being little more than an echo of what a human might feel, Castiel can recognize it as grief. If he were not so disturbed by the cold, sick twist of the emotion, he might be fascinated by it.

Until meeting the Winchesters, Castiel's attention to the emotional capabilities of his vessel were nonexistent. By now, Castiel has learned what to call the odd glimmerings of insubstantial feeling that sometimes settle within him. Often, this happens at inopportune of times.

Emotion carries with it a myriad of sensations that humans cannot experience, but which Castiel's true form reacts to in spite of their second-hand nature. He particularly dislikes the sensation of betrayal and shame, emotional states that grate against his grace like a metaphysical corrosive.

Not all human feelings are unpleasant. He knows the soft caress of relief and the warm taste of hope. Still other sentiments seem to inextricably coiled up within one another, neither enjoyable nor objectionable, yet closely linked all the same.

Residual sense memories of his vessel's host remain etched into his mind despite that soul having departed to Heaven. Castiel's resurrection after being blown to smithereens by the archangel Raphael did not herald the soul's return. It was then that Castiel first learned what it meant to grieve.

What he feels for Sam is related, but different; equal parts regret over the loss of a comrade and friend, but also a large proportion of distress at the thought of Dean's pain. Dean, who had to watch his brother dive into Hell with two archangels firmly in tow.

Castiel did not see Sam's sacrifice; at the time, he was as close to nonexistence as any being could be.

As powerful as Lucifer is, only God or Death can unmake a force as potent as an angel's grace or a mortal soul. It takes millions of years by human count to reconstruct a soul; it would have taken billions before the shards of Castiel's grace pulled back together had God not intervened.

For those few scattered moments, the angel Castiel actually did cease to exist. He had known nothing. Yet, within the span of an instant, he was back from the nothingness and sculpted back into sentience by the loving touch he had long since lost hope of feeling again.

Just in time to feel the aftershocks beneath him as the earth stilled and closed over the Cage. Just in time to see the expression of hopeless disbelief etched onto Dean's face and to comprehend what must have happened. Just in time to realize that victory would not herald any joy or happiness this time.

Although he does not have the capacity to mourn the loss of Sam in exactly the same way, Castiel comprehends Dean's inner turmoil. It is why he stood with him and his resurrected surrogate father for hours to gaze down at the spot where Sam disappeared. There was an unspoken understanding that no one would depart until Dean made the first move.

Sunset threatened before Dean finally managed to pull himself from the unmarked doorway to Hell and nod to Robert Singer's suggestion that they return to his home. The old hunter sent Castiel a voiceless warning as they trudged towards the cars, but Castiel didn't need it.

He saw how Dean's movements had the mechanical deliberateness of a sleepwalker. Although he could easily have transported the three of them and their vehicles to Bobby's home, he did not offer. Dean was already far outside of his comfort zone, and the drive would calm him. He needed to feel the roar of the familiar engine beneath him and know that this, at least, was something he had control over. And so Castiel remained by Dean's side for the rest of the day, despite the steady hum in his grace telling him he was no longer cut off from the Host.

Because inexplicably, he has changed.

More power than Castiel has ever known churns within him, and he understands without question that his grace is that of an archangel. Strange, how that realization is somehow unimportant at the moment; other angels would consider it the paramount of all honors.

Yet all Castiel can think of is to sit beside Dean and remain silent until the human wishes otherwise.

This is something that friends do, he has learned.

Hours pass.

Castiel stares out the window at the trees lining the road, marvelling in their untouched beauty. God's world is magnificent, and he temporarily entertains the sin of pride at his minor part in helping to preserve it. This is a fleeting indulgence, of course; he knows the future will be filled with conflict.

"What are you gonna do now?"

He is surprised when Dean finally breaks their silence and turns to consider him. The hunter's eyes flick toward him in the translucent reflection of the windshield, and then refocus on the road ahead.

Castiel answers as though there has simply been a lull in conversation, instead of hours of tense quiet. He feels the smallest of creases appear in the vessel's forehead as he mulls over that question, settling on an answer at last. "Return to Heaven, I suppose."

"Heaven?" Dean's face contorts slightly in a frown, as if he didn't expect this response. There is another beat of silence and Castiel ponders the situation from Dean's point of view. He supposes the decision is rather anticlimactic, a far cry from the fallen angel that cursed out the Lord and immolated an archangel in the span of a month.

Still, it is the decision that makes most sense.

"With Michael in the Cage, I'm sure it's total anarchy up there," Castiel explains, detecting the disapproval that Dean has not even worked himself up to yet.

"So what, you're the new sheriff in town?" Dean deadpans.

Castiel inclines his head, chewing over the connotation of the word. He feels the smallest of chuckles escape his vessel's lips involuntarily. It is a physical quirk that would not have happened to years ago. "I like that. Yeah. I suppose I am."

"Wow." This time, Dean is unable to hide the bitterness of his words. "God give you a brand new, shiny set of wings, and suddenly you're his bitch again."

The words sting more than they should, but Castiel carefully ignores them.

"I don't know…what God wants," he answers, a little defensively. "I don't know if He'll ever return. It just…seems like the right thing to do."

Dean shakes his head slightly. "Well, if you do see him, you tell him I'm coming for him next."

There is another beat of quiet, and Castiel studies the human, realizing unexpectedly that grief is not the only emotion Dean is experiencing right now. Comprehension dawns, and Castiel berates himself for not noticing earlier. "You're angry."

"That's an understatement."

"He helped," Castiel insists gently, ignoring Dean's derisive snort. He is used to the man's contempt when it comes to God; for a time, Castiel felt the same. "Maybe even more than we realize."

"That's easy for you to say, he brought you back! But what about Sam?" Dean's voice rises, the tension behind it threatening to break his voice. "What about me, huh? Where's my grand prize? All I got is my brother in a hole!"

Castiel chooses his words carefully. It is yet another action he never bothered with when they first met. He understands, in an abstract way, that Dean is only able to feel the loss of his brother at this moment. Their pyrrhic success, despite being a triumph of sorts, means nothing to him in the face of the cost. Yet Castiel knows what was accomplished today. He knows with every fibre of being that the sacrifice of Sam Winchester safeguarded the freedom of his Father's most beloved creations.

Perhaps, if what he hopes comes to pass, it might mean freedom and choice for the entire Host of Heaven as well.

"You got what you asked for, Dean. No Paradise. No Hell. Just more of the same." Dean doesn't answer, although his hands tighten on the steering wheel. Castiel represses the urge to lay a comforting hand on him, knowing Dean's aversion to touch will be at its height, given his current stress level. Instead, he continues in what he hopes is a comforting, firm tone, "I mean it, Dean. What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?"

He expects Dean to blow up at him then, to explode into a tirade of blasphemous anger and anguished insults. They are the kind of reactions Castiel is used to his charge displaying. He welcomes them because it means that Dean might break from this unhealthy silence for a moment and let himself begin to grieve properly. It will allow him to start healing or so he has heard human experts in psychology suggest.

It is not what happens, though.

Instead, Castiel feels an unexpected pulse within his grace. His entire being jerks suddenly and he senses his true name being spoken from far away, awash in the dulcet tones of Enochian.

Someone is summoning him.

Castiel is moving before he is aware of it. He barely has time to regret that he will not be able to ensure Dean's safe arrival at his destination as the interior of the automobile fades away.

He is aware of thousands of miles rushing past in mere seconds, vague blurs and vibrant hues juxtaposing themselves as cities flash by like long streams of colour. The many planes of existence meld together seamlessly. The world stops and everything settles as he reaches his destination. In a moment incalculable to the human concept of time, his surroundings sharpen and he feels the sweet underling taste that is the aether of Heaven.

Not his favored incarnation of it, though.

There is a stark difference between this heaven and Castiel's preferred heaven; instead of seeing an autistic man flying a kite beside a crystalline lake, Castiel finds himself in a well-lit, wood-panelled estate. Even without his own personal sense of aesthetics, he knows that the opulent leather couches and ornate rugs distinguish this location as being of a higher class than any of the motel rooms he has visited the Winchesters in. The dwelling is filled with the peaty smell of cigar smoke and varnish. A large portrait of a human political leader that physically resembles a chimpanzee hangs over the fireplace.

Castiel is not alone.

Raphael sits behind a sturdy looking desk, wearing a tailored suit and appearing unruffled despite having spent the last nine months trapped in a circle of Holy Fire. He is flanked by an angel inhabiting the body of a slim blond woman, whose cold eyes regard Castiel with a mixture of irritation and distaste.

Suriel, Castiel realizes, recognizing the grace ensconced in the vessel; Suriel's presence means the other two angels in the room are Zadakiel and Oriphiel. Zadakiel's vessel is a solemn looking, angular-faced man in his forties, while Oriphiel has chosen a short, nervous-looking young woman with auburn hair. The vessel's eyes remind Castiel of Dean's, except instead of snapping determination, the vessel's glimmer with uncertainty. Oriphiel stares with more awe than distrust.

With Michael and Lucifer in the Pit, and Gabriel dead, the last of Heaven's archangels have gathered.

And now, Castiel is one of them.

Raphael's mouth moves incrementally in what is supposed to be a smile, but only reminds Castiel of a cat eyeing its prey. "The prodigal son returns."

'As though I had a choice when summoned,' Castiel thinks but does not say. He will not give Raphael the satisfaction of believing he exerts any kind of control over him. Being reduced the molecular mulch by his older sibling has put a significant amount of tension on their relationship. Castiel supposes that if he is resentful, it's nothing to what Raphael – never known to let go of a grudge – must feel about the time spent trapped in an empty warehouse.

At least Castiel had the solace of insubstantiality.

"There are important matters to discuss," Raphael continues, the incremental smile not reaching his borrowed eyes.

"Whose heaven is this?" Castiel deflects, pretending curiosity as he tries to assess the situation. It is an avoidance method he has seen Dean use a number of times. He feels unease and not a small amount of nervousness at meeting with Raphael after their last encounter, even though now they are gathering as equals.

"Ken Lay's," Raphael answers, unconcerned. "I'm borrowing it for the purposes of this…conclave."

"I still question his admittance here."

"He's devout," Raphael replies dismissively. "Trumps everything."

There is an uncomfortable silence before Castiel realizes he is expected to speak. "What do you want?"

"Things are a mess, no thanks to you and your pet mud monkeys," Raphael informs him without preamble. "You may have been resurrected to a higher station, but not everyone has forgiven your treachery."

Suriel bristles, but goes still at a gesture from Raphael. Oriphiel continues to look uncomfortable, while Zadakiel seems bored with the entire situation. None of them look like allies to Castiel, and he feels his vessel's stomach clench.

"I have been forgiven by the only one that truly matters," Castiel reminds them quietly, noting how something dark ripples across Raphael's grace at these words. The other three look doubtful. "So why resort to a summoning? I would have returned her of my own accord once by business was finished."

"Your business should have been finished the minute Michael and Lucifer were imprisoned," Suriel complains sourly. "You should have returned to the Host immediately."

"I was comforting a friend," Castiel retorts unapologetically. "He just lost his brother."

"And we have lost countless of ours!" Suriel snaps. "No thanks to you –"

"Peace," Raphael interrupts, and for a moment Castiel is struck by the human sense of irony at his brother using that word. Suriel goes quiet, but continues to glower at Castiel.

Oriphiel coughs, tentative. "What Surieal means to say, is that with Michael…absent, the Host will look to us to guide them. We cannot have any more archangels _compromised_ at such a crucial time."

"Compromised?" Castiel echoes. He feels offended at the notion, a concept that is almost completely foreign. "How do you think I have been compromised? Judging by my continued presence, it would seem I have followed our Father's will closer than anyone else."

Shudders pass through his siblings' grace, the angelic equivalent to a sharp intake of breath, at the boldness of that statement.

"You have learned odd ideas in your time with the humans," Zadakiel intones, grave. "We cannot have those notions colour the issue."

"What issue?"

"The issue of whether or not to continue with Father's plan immediately or to wait," Oriphiel elucidates. "I – some of us believe that you were right to help avert the Apocalypse – that the events were set in motion by agents of the Host that had become impatient and lost faith, not by our Father's will. Perhaps now was not the correct time for –"

"The rest of us believe you have defied our Father's will and denied us Paradise," Suriel interjects.

"As you can see, we are at an impasse," Zadakiel remarks mildly.

"I see," Castiel says, the words leaden and uncomfortable on his borrowed tongue. "I assume you have decided that I deserve no say in this, despite the fact that we are now equals."

"We must deliberate on the future," Raphael states decisively, ignoring Castiel's sentiment. "The four of us are by no means united on how to proceed, but there is one thing we are in agreement about. Irrespective of your new status, brother, you have been too close to humankind for too long and your crimes are many. Until we can come to a unanimous decision about what to do with you, you will remain in Heaven."

Castiel tenses, eyes flicking around the room.

It is obvious that Raphael and Suriel want him out of the equation. Raphael in particular would not hesitate to strike him down under normal circumstances; possibly Castiel's second resurrection causes enough measure of doubt that the older archangel doesn't care to try. Suriel is most likely Raphael's ally in this, and while Oriphiel might be convinced if Castiel had enough time, Zadakiel is completely neutral on the matter.

The odds are not good.

"As much as I would like to experience Heaven's…hospitability, I find myself disinclined to accept the invitation," Castiel enunciates slowly, trying to construct an escape plan his siblings won't see coming. "My last experience of Revelation did not agree with me."

He attempts to unfurl his wings and flee, but freezes when he finds himself rendered immobile. The four other archangels are all standing now, their collective will halting him into place with a businesslike intensity. Only Raphael seems to derive a true measure of enjoyment from Castiel's powerlessness.

"Don't worry, Castiel, we picked you out a nice room this time," Raphael assures coolly. "You will reside there until we decide whether prison is the best option for you…or if there is a more fitting consequence."

"Why are you doing this?" Castiel manages to bite out, finding it hard to talk with the waves of energy binding him into place. "What will this accomplish? The war is over."

"You think so?" Raphael hisses, stalking forward until his vessel's nose is inches away from Castiel's. Power crackles like lightning from his brother's grace. "It's never over. Something is stirring in the bowels of the earth, Castiel. Can't you feel it?" Castiel doesn't bother to point out that he can feel nothing beyond the crippling grasp of four archangels. "Because whatever it is, it is older than we are. If we are going to be ready for it, we need to present a united front, which we cannot do until we deal with you. And there is very little time left before it wakes up."

(*)

It is raining heavily when Sam Winchester opens his eyes to a moonless sky and gasps desperately for oxygen.

The sense of respite lasts barely a second, before the movement of his diaphragm throws into sharp relief the stabbing pain radiating through his body. From the tips of his eyelids down to his bone marrow, everything aches in a way that makes him wonder if he went a few rounds inside a trash compactor. His mouth tastes like sulfur, smoke and blood.

Slowly, taking deliberate care in case any part of him is seriously injured, he forces himself upward. His fingers press into mud and grass, and he is aware of his clothing clinking to him, pulling at hypersensitive skin as he moves. Wiping his hair from his eyes as they adjust to wakefulness, he realizes that steam is rising from around him; heat radiates from his body. As soon as he notices this, the cold begins to seep into him, racing to conquer every corner of his self that was ever warm.

His teeth begin to chatter.

Sam looks around in confusion, trying to make sense of what's going on, and then stills when he understands what he's seeing through the blackness.

He is lying in the middle of a graveyard, or the remains of one.

Something has sent the chalky headstones of the old cemetery flying out within a thirty yard radius, as though some unearthly power managed to rip them from their moorings. The ground beneath him murmurs, a sound like the slowing of a pulse.

In the darkness, he can't be sure, but he has a sneaking suspicion that in daylight he might see a perfect circle of dead grass and charred soiled signifying a blast radius of unholy ground.

A radius with him at its center.

"Son of a bitch," he rasps.

(*)

(*)(*)(*)

**(*)** **Supernatural (*)**

"Conversations with Dead People"

(*)(*)(*)

(*)

For an immeasurable period of time, Sam can only stare out into the darkness in disbelief and confusion, his memory a blank. He considers the devastation around him, surrounding where he sits, before coherent thought starts to return to him.

'Still breathing. Still alive. Gotta move. Gotta find Dean. Gotta find safety.'

The simple automaticity and familiar priorities in those thoughts are a comfort despite his confusion. It's a comfort that doesn't last long as memory comes rushing forth with such a force that it feels like he's been hit by a tidal wave.

– _The slick feel of Dean's blood between the fingers of his clenched fist, the nausea and apprehension as he pulled the Horsemen's rings out of his pocket, the thickness of his tongue as he spoke the incantation, Lucifer fighting to reassert control by trying to cut off the oxygen to his brain and freeze his joints, Michael grabbing hold of him, trying to stop him, the fall into the abyss – _

There's nothing after that. He isn't sure if he should be thankful or worried.

Experience tells him to err on the side of expecting the worst.

He wonders how he got out of the Cage, because this can't be Hell – can it? If it is, where's the fire and the bodies and blood? Where is Lucifer?

Somehow, Sam is the only one currently occupying this body. He feels mysteriously and wonderfully free of the Devil's taint, no longer fighting against the will of the archangel that killed Bobby and Castiel.

'Oh, God – Bobby and Cas.'

He remembers it as if it just happened minutes ago. Grief rolls over him in another wave, making his stomach clench and his throat burn with pressure. He sees it, playing like a television rerun in his head –

– _The spray of flesh and bone when Lucifer blasted Castiel to smithereens and the sound of Bobby's neck as it snapped and Dean's strangled cry of disbelief – _

His thoughts come full circle, the notion of his brother briefly diffusing his other worries.

'Dean.'

His brother watched him take the plunge, and Sam recalls the look in his eyes. There was a silent plea to do anything by jump into that hole in the ground, Apocalypse be damned. Up until the last second, there was hope in Dean's eyes.

'Where's Dean now?'

Sam scans the area, unconsciously rummaging in his pockets before he remembers. Lucifer tossed his phone – along with his wallet and everything else – about an hour after the big 'yes'. All because Dean wouldn't stop calling; said it was giving him a headache.

The next logical choice is Castiel, except – Castiel is dead. His vessel's remains probably still litter the cemetery, if they haven't already washed away in the rain. Or rotted, depending on how long Sam has been out of it.

Which sort of begs the question of how Sam got here in the first place.

Something pulled him up, that is obvious, and it's probably powerful. Not a run-of-the-mill Crossroads Demon or even an angel could reach down into the deepest circle of Hell and haul him up. His first guess might have been God, once, except now he knows God doesn't care – if He did, He wouldn't have allowed the Apocalypse to almost happen. He would have helped Sam and Dean in the beginning, and would have made Himself known to Castiel and the other angels. He would have stopped all of the death and destruction.

So, no, God is probably not the one that saved him. Which leaves a pretty short – read, _nonexistent_ – list, because, after all, who's as powerful as God? Or more powerful? And say there is Someone or Something as powerful or more powerful than God – why would they care about Sam?

Unless…

Unless someone made them care.

Unless someone was very, very convincing or made a very lucrative deal.

Sam clenches his fists, an uncomfortable suspicion growing and taking shape.

It all comes down to Dean again.

'I knew he wasn't going to keep his promise,' Sam thinks, breathless with a rush of anger and anxiety.

He has the mad urge to go tearing around, wandering in the raining darkness calling his brother's name, but he isn't sure if he actually has the strength to move yet. Besides, he isn't even sure how long he's been under. Dean once said time moved differently in Hell –

As opposed to where? Where is he now? He thinks for a long moment, casting his mind back to what he knows about the area, or at least his last memories of his location. He figures he's somewhere in Kansas – probably around Lawrence – because the Devil had joked about everything ending where it began. As for the local geography, Sam isn't sure.

Behind him, he hears a sudden sharp intake of breath, followed by a choking moan of discomfort.

Warily, Sam moves himself around to investigate, the optimistic part of him wanting it to be Dean, the realistic one knowing it probably isn't. He hopes he has enough strength in him to defend himself against whoever or whatever it is, if they decide to come at him with bad intent.

That thought dies before it fully forms.

Sam swears in surprise at the slight figure lying in a fetal position several inches away. Even in the moonless night, he'll never forget that face because it's the one he saw in his final sentient moments as they hurtled into the depths of the earth together.

'Adam,' he thinks uncomprehendingly, taking in the tight expression on his half-brother's face. The younger man is having trouble working his way towards consciousness. 'Adam, not Michael.'

And Sam knows it is so. Just as he inexplicably knows that he's alone in his mind, Lucifer nothing but a bad memory. No one possessed by an archangel could mimic such an expression of discomfort. Even when Castiel doused Michael in Holy Oil and set him on fire, the archangel's reaction was one of surprise and rage, not of pain.

Adam is intact. Somehow, they are both intact.

He looks so much like Dean that he could be him, except for the light hair and being about a decade younger. The bone structure and mouth are the same, the genetic markers of John Winchester that Sam never inherited. Dean once said that Sam resembled their maternal grandfather, and he would know, of course, having been sent back in time to actually meet the man.

"Adam," Sam whispers, his voice hoarse as he crawls over to the prone figure. He clears his throat, painfully, and notes that he feels like he's been screaming. Most likely he has. He tries again, louder this time, and focusses on achieving at least an audible volume. "_Adam_."

There is a flutter of eyelids and then Adam stares up at him uncomprehendingly.

"You're okay," Sam breathes in relief.

Then, before he can react, Adam cries out in a rough, rasping voice and lashes out. His fist connects painfully with Sam's jaw as he shoves him away.

Sam falls backward, unable to recover from his surprise before the younger man scrambles to his feet and takes off at a clumsy, desperate run.

"ADAM!"

(*)

Adam's limbs feel like they are leaden and fractured, but it doesn't stop him from trying to get as far away from the Devil as he can. He ignores the thing that shouts his name and tries not to dwell on the fact that the sound is getting closer as he dashes across broken headstones and dead grass, looking frantically for escape.

He doesn't know where he is, but for some reason he thinks it should be familiar. It's hard to remember a lot, the ache in his body and his head not doing very much to help him in that regard.

The rain is a shock of cold against his skin, but it's refreshing, like diving fully clothed into a pool on a sweltering day. It's been far too long since he felt any kind of refreshing sensations, he thinks, but isn't sure why.

Adam remembers voices, people telling him that they needed his help to stop the Devil.

'Angels,' his mind supplies as it tries to reboot itself.

They showed him images of the one that Lucifer was going to wear when he destroyed everything, told him that it was his brother. That because of their shared blood, they were chosen to end everything.

'Chosen. Winchester blood. Sam and Dean.'

He remembers them, in the vague sense of remembering someone you met only once. Sam's pitying, sympathetic expression as he stared down at Adam in the living room of some shabby old house, and beside him Dean looking angry and bitter. They told him they were going to save him, but he couldn't trust them. The angels said they couldn't be trusted. Sam was Lucifer. Sam was going to help the Devil destroy the world. And even if he wasn't, and even if Dean was possibly alright, they didn't mean anything to Adam, because Sam and Dean were psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent on each other.

Someone said that to him once, he thinks.

'Zachariah. Right,' he remembers with a frown. And then another unbidden thought, 'Zachariah was a dick.'

His lungs burn and taste like asphalt, but he doesn't stop running.

Now he can remember white light and pain and fire and then feeling like he was chained to an atomic bomb as it went nuclear, all the while a soothing voice promising everything would be alright. With every searing breath he took, it told him that everything would be perfect – Paradise – once the Devil was dead.

More glimpses of Sam's face, all of them twisted into expressions no human should have been able to manage. He doesn't think he's ever seen Sam make those faces, and they were probably conjured up by Michael.

Maybe.

After that, Adam's memory becomes a little fuzzy. Everything is simply fleeting glimpses, but he recalls the sensation of falling, and then darkness. Something stops him from remembering after that, but what his mind can't recall, his psyche does. He can feel harsh, residual terror and anger and pain and fear stirring up within him again, and the imagined face of Sam Winchester just brings that all to the forefront once again.

And so he runs, because he thinks it might be the first time in a long time that he's been able to run anywhere, when he wasn't trapped; he doesn't know why, but he decides to trust the instinct punching into his gut that he has to get as far away from the man who housed (still houses?) the Devil as he can.

It's at that point that he feels his legs crumple from beneath him. Someone tackles him to the ground – inexperienced and clumsy, really, nothing like when he played football in high school but effective nonetheless – and tries to wrestle him into submission.

The Devil is there, calling his name, telling him to calm down as he tries to stop Adam from escaping.

But Adam knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is not going back, not returning to wherever it is that he was, and he isn't going to let Sam or the Devil or anyone put him back.

He kicks and thrashes, confident when he feels solid bone beneath his hands and his feet as he lands a few blows; he relishes in the pained gasps of the one holding him, hoping that it means he'll soon be able to free himself and get out of here –

He is hit in the head and the world spins momentarily on its axis.

Adam's limbs go heavy and he feels himself go limp, dazed.

Rain trickles over his face and up his nose for a few seconds before he is pulled up into a sitting position, gazing into Satan's/Sam's apologetic face.

"Sorry about that," he says, ignoring the blood gushing from his nostrils where Adam managed to get a hit in. He wonders in a moment of pique whether he managed to break it. "You were freaking out, man, I had to stop you before you broke your neck falling over a headstone or something."

It sounds like Sam, but it could be a trick.

"Let me go."

The man who is supposed to be his brother and supposed to be the Devil ignores him. Instead, he levels a stare. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Adam doesn't want to answer, not really, but fury and fear loosen his tongue. "The door shutting me into that swanky room. And then light and noise. Pain." He glares. "You left me. After all that crap about blood, you guys just left me for Michael!"

The other man is silent, and Adam is sure he's making a face even though the darkness obscures what it is. After a moment, he murmurs sadly, "We tried to get to you."

Along with the guilt in his tone is the unspoken accusation, 'and if you hadn't told Zachariah where to find you, we never would have had to come rescue you in the first place.'

Even if Sam doesn't say it, Adam is the one thinking it. It galls him, because he knows it's true. Trusting Zachariah was not one of his best decisions ever. The resentment over that fact makes him strike out again, verbally this time because Sam has pinned his arms firmly to his side.

"Yeah, you tried real hard!" Adam accuses with a sneer, furiously fighting against the hold the other man has on him. "I bet if it was Dean in there, you would have managed. I was on fire – burning up – and _he _said –" Adam's voice breaks a little here, " – he said if I wanted to live – if I didn't want my soul to disintegrate, I had to say 'yes'. I had to let him in, or I'd be barbecued."

His rant ends up shaky, and he hopes Sam can hear the warning in his tone that he's too stubborn to voice. He refuses to think it's because he doesn't want Sam to blame him for giving in, because that might mean he cares what the guy thinks.

Which he doesn't, of course.

"It's okay," Sam tells him, attempting to be soothing despite the rattle in his voice that rivals a three-pack-a-day smoker's rasp. "You didn't have a choice. I get it." He seems to want to say something else, changes his mind, and instead murmurs, "I'm sorry. We did our best to get you out of there."

Adam fights down the urge to both laugh and sob, and instead struggles a little more to free his arms. "Can you stop humping my leg and let me up?"

"You going to freak out on me again?"

"No, but I'm considering head-butting you."

The vicelike grip on him disappears, and he sees the shadowy figure that is Sam get up. By now, Adam has decided that if Sam were the Devil, he probably would have just killed Adam and been done with it. Seeing as how he's still alive, it means Sam is Sam or the Devil just wants to play with his food before he eats it. Either way, Adam is at least free to move his limbs again, and that's something.

"Come on, we have to get out of the rain," Sam says, offering him a hand up.

Adam jerks out of the way, bringing himself to his feet by his own power. "I'm fine."

Sam lowers his hand. Even in the dark, Adam senses that hurt.

Good.

"Come on," Sam sighs. "There's probably a church or a barn around here where we can wait out the rain."

"And then what?"

"Then we figure out what the hell happened to us and we go from there."

(*)

Dean slumps, boneless, against the musty couch in Bobby's living room, a bottle of whiskey held loosely in his hand. It's half-empty, the label slightly damp from clumsy attempts to chug the container's contents, but he hasn't actually taken a sip in the last hour.

He and Bobby pulled into the rain-slicked drive of the salvage yard sometime after midnight, parking haphazardly outside the house. Dean remembers staggering inside and immediately heading for the liquor cabinet, not bothering to explain to Bobby about Cas's sudden absence. Inwardly, he had a few choice things to say about it, but can't remember any of them right now.

Luckily, Bobby didn't bother with questions, either about that or about how Dean was holding up. Instead, he seemed to have resigned himself to making sure Dean didn't accidentally poison himself in his desperation to drink away the pain. He vaguely recalls several large tumblers of water being pressed into his hands at various intervals over the night and muttered declarations of "idjit" in the background.

He's also pretty sure Bobby is still completely sober. Probably wants to make sure Dean doesn't decide to do something monumentally stupid, the way he did the last time. Dean's heart shudders at the memory of three years ago, cradling Sam's lifeless body in his arms. There's no body to mourn this time, and no deal to make. Otherwise, Dean would have done it already.

Of course, every time he even thinks of doing something like that or finds himself coming up with another plan, each one more unlikely than the last, he hears Sam's voice in his head, reminding him of his promise.

_'You go find Lisa. You pray to God she's dumb enough to take you in, and you – you have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me.'_

Even entertaining the idea goes against everything that Dean has been for the past twenty-five years, not including his stopover in Hell. It feels like giving up. It feels exactly as it did weeks ago, when he was on the cusp of giving in to Michael. Too tired to keep fighting for a freedom he was never supposed to have in the first place.

The irony now is that he has that freedom and that he would pass it back in a heartbeat if it meant saving Sam.

'No one can save Sam,' he forces himself to admit. If it were possible to do, Cas would have done it back when they were standing over the spot where Sam and Lucifer and Adam and Michael disappeared. The angel already pulled one Winchester out of the Pit, and Dean knows that if there was even a small chance and he asked, Cas would have pulled out two more. 'Probably wouldn't even have to ask, if he could.'

But he couldn't and so he left, and now Dean is here and Sam is in hole in some abandoned cemetery bunking with the Devil.

Twenty-seven years of protecting Sammy and in the end he failed anyhow.

What else is there to do now, but to give up? At least in doing so he'd be keeping his word to his brother, whether Sam is trapped in Hell or not. If he can't do that, then all of the shit Dean managed to drag himself through and still come out of breathing afterward has been for nothing.

Lisa seems like the best option. Dean figures that the sooner he makes it to Indiana, the sooner she can tell him that as thankful as she is about what he's done for her and Ben in the past, it's probably better if he goes his own way. He can then agree and keep driving to destinations unknown. Maybe he'll never stop, and it'll just be him and the Impala rumbling away beneath him for the rest of his life.

As far as futures go, there are worse ones that he can envision for himself.

Hell, he's seen worse.

He remembers the future Zachariah showed him, how it still managed to be a million times worse than where he is right now. He still has nightmares about that visit – Bobby's empty, bloodstained chair, Cas's drug-induced, self-depreciating smirks and the snap of future Dean's neck under Lucifer's shiny shoes while Sam had long since been burned to oblivion. Knowing that future will never happen now is small comfort, but Dean will take what he can get.

His thoughts go round in circles of the same vein for another few hours before he decides it's time to move. By that time, dawn is only just starting to brighten the dusty sitting room.

"I'm going," he announces, surprised that his voice is as steady as it is.

From the chair across the room where he nurses his own bottle of beer, Bobby sends him a suspicious look. "Where to?"

Dean hesitates for a moment, and then answers quietly, "Indiana."

Bobby nods. He knows about Lisa; Sam told him about the incident with the changelings a long while back, and in a quieter, more private moment, Dean confided to the old hunter that he was pretty sure Ben was his kid, whatever Lisa wanted him to believe.

"I lie for a living, Bobby. Ninety-five percent of the time, I can tell when I'm being lied to. And she was not working the truth," he had said simply, wearily, over a bottle of beer. He couldn't tell this to Sam, because his brother would have worried at the matter like a dog with a bone.

"You gonna do anything about it?" Bobby had asked, gruff, but with a hint of understanding in his eyes that belied his tone.

"I'm doing the best thing I can as long as I'm in the life," Dean had answered after a pause. "Staying the hell out of his."

Except now, Dean doesn't have any fight left in him. No reason to stay in the life, no reason not to give normal a try. And if Bobby has any opinions about that, he doesn't voice them.

"It's half a day's drive," Dean continues, as though he needs to justify himself. "I should probably head out now."

"Gonna lie down or have a bite 'fore you head out?"

"Nah," he shakes his head, casual like. "I'll stop on the way. Don't really have the stomach for much right now, anyway."

"I'll brew you up a cuppa Joe all the same," Bobby tells him. He doesn't add, 'You're about twice the legal limit right now and you haven't slept in days'. Dean's grateful for that. Sam wouldn't have –

He grits his teeth and waits for the thought to pass.

He stands up heavily, his entire body feeling disconnected, and goes to make sure the Impala is in good enough shape for a long trip. The sky is grey and depressing, still smelling of rain and smog. The air is damp and cool as he goes around checking the tires and does a cursory examination beneath the hood. All he really needs is to top up the windshield washing fluid, which he goes to get from the back of the trunk.

Popping it open, Dean freezes, staring down at the rear of the car that he's lived his entire life out of. The trunk is still stuffed with the communal bag of laundry, Dean's things – and Sam's belongings. Dean feels his chest constrict and a crippling paralysis at the sight.

Is he really going to just drive away to a better life without even trying to help his brother? Without helping either of them?

There's got to be a book or a hoodoo priest or a demon or _something_ that can get to the Cage, and he wants to waltz right back into Bobby's to go rifling through the old tomes and whatever the hell else is stored in there –

_'You got to promise not to try to bring me back.'_

Dean clenches and unclenches his fists.

There's only one way to keep the promise, he knows. The only way to break this link, this bond they've always had, is to get rid of as many traces of it as he can.

Hands shaking, he weeds through the contents of the trunk, pulling out papers and disguises related to old cases; then he goes around to the passenger side to grab the box with all of the fake IDs and burner phones. He stuffs all of this into a sodden cardboard box and heads determinedly into Bobby's backyard.

He can feel Bobby's eyes on him from the kitchen window, but the man doesn't come out to stop him when he throws the box into the crude fire pit, or when he douses it and everything in it with lighter fluid and sets it on fire.

The pungent smell of smouldering plastic and metal wafts through the air and Dean spends a few moments staring at the blackening objects in the fire pit.

Leaving them burning, he returns to the Impala, intent on grabbing Sam's things to add to the fire. He doesn't have an actual body to burn; these will be the closest he can manage. When he gets there, though, he can't bring himself to pick up the bag. Even standing several feet away and in the damp air, he can still smell Sam's girly shampoo and the scent that belongs uniquely to his brother.

A lump forms in his throat and he almost gives into the tears, before there's a hand on his shoulder and Bobby is beside him.

The older man gently takes the bag with Sam's belongings and brings them into the house. Dean is still standing there when he returns, empty handed, and Dean supposes the bag is now locked away in the old hunter's many storage closets.

"I'll keep hold of that 'til you get back," he states gruffly, even though they both know that if Dean ever comes back, he'll never have the strength to sift through his brother's belongings. Dean isn't like Sam, who clung to his brother's affects – who tried to become Dean through the osmosis of his car and his music and his clothes when he died.

Dean doesn't want any reminders, and so he replies dully, "Sure."

They don't speak again while Bobby finishes brewing up coffee, or as they sit together and sip the bitter drink on the porch. The sky begins to drizzle lightly, but eventually leaves off; the sun peeks over the stacks of cars that are more rust than vehicle.

He wants nothing more than to stay at Bobby's, to share the loss of his brother with the man who is all but a father to him. But he can't. His mind remains on the promise that Sam forced out of him, the one he had hoped he wouldn't have to keep because he wasn't sure he would be able to. He still isn't.

They wander back to the cars, and Dean inhales the smell of oil and dirt mixing freshly with the aroma of morning dew. This place is almost as much of a home to him as the Impala is.

He _knows_ he doesn't want to leave; just as much as he knows he has to. The longer he stays here, the less likely it will be for him to be able to leave it. Still, he casts his eyes around the lot and asks, "You going to be okay here?"

Bobby snorts. "I've managed here long before you were in diapers, boy." Dean feels the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Bobby shrugs. "Might get another dog, though. Keep the townie kids from lurkin' about."

"Sounds like an idea," Dean agrees vaguely.

Bobby rolls his eyes and reaches out, pulling Dean into a hug that jars him a bit. He is surprised and a little cagey, because Bobby isn't given to frequent emotional bursts. After a breath, he relaxes into the embrace.

"You take care, Bobby," he says.

"Likewise."

Dean locks away the rest of his hunting gear in the hidden compartment – because retiring from hunting or not, no one who knows the truth can ever really think that just because they no longer go looking for trouble that it won't find them – and swings himself into the driver's seat.

"I'll call…when I can," he says after a pause, and Bobby doesn't remark on the tone that suggests he probably won't. They both know without a doubt that it will be a long time before they see or even speak to each other again.

A clean break, that's what Dean needs.

As he pulls out of the salvage yard, he hopes the drive from Sioux Falls to Cicero will be enough to clear his head.

(*)(*)(*)

Adam crosses his arms and looks defiantly back at Sam, pretending he doesn't notice the uncomfortable chafe of wet clothing against his still sensitive skin or the fact that spiders are probably crawling into his hair. Since allowing the older man to convince him to get out of the rain, he has kept a deliberate eye on him and not turned his back on him once.

Because that kind of stupidity gets you eaten, whether you know the person or not.

They managed to find shelter in an old shack alongside the road, about a mile away from the cemetery; beat up old signage tells him this place is called Stull. Sam told him it meant they were on the outskirts of Lawrence, where he says he grew up, but he might as well have said 'Bumfuck Nowhere', because Adam knows as much about quantum physics as he does about Kansas. Which is pretty much nothing.

They waited out the rain in mostly tense silence. Occasionally, Sam opened his mouth as though he wanted to ask something, but then decided better. Adam might have felt a degree of smugness at that, if it weren't for that face that he wanted to know just how much Sam remembered of whatever had happened to them. It's obvious from the fact that they both woke up in the same place that Sam agreed to play cheerful host to the Devil, but it's still entirely possible he doesn't remember it.

'Which could be good,' Adam thinks. He supposes it's one thing to be the vessel of a holy warrior like Michael – holy pretentious bully, actually – but Adam figures being ridden by the Devil's got to be a hundred times worse.

So why isn't he anymore? And why isn't Adam stuck in the back room while Michael does his thing?

"No idea," Sam answers, and Adam realizes belatedly that he asked the question out loud. For what it's worth, Sam comes off as being honestly unsure. "You said you remembered right up until the beautiful room, right?"

'Beautiful room,' Adam muses, remembering the ritzy waiting room Zachariah brought him to. "Yeah. After that, it's just…flashes."

"Sounds like we only remember up to the last point when we were in control," Sam mumbles, not looking at Adam. The shed is lit by a single light bulb that looks like it might burst if it gets too warm, and Adam sees that the other man's nose has stopped bleeding. From the look of it, Adam didn't manage to break it after all. He's peevishly annoyed at that. "Michael obvious stuffed you in the backseat the minute he took over, and I…"

He trails off, his face set.

"You what?" Adam prompts, unsure if he'll actually get anything out of him.

"I remember…a little more," Sam admits tightly, and Adam tenses a bit at that. "Lucifer allowed it. He thought he was doing me a favor by letting me have front row seats to the big showdown. I think that's why I was able to fight him for control in the end."

Adam blinks. "You _what_?"

Sam deliberates for a spell, and then explains in low tones about everything that happened. He explains about facing down Michael in Adam's body, about Dean appearing for them both at the end. Sam obviously skates over what exactly happened, just mentions that he was able to take back his body for a few minutes. Long enough to open a gateway to Hell and hurl himself in, taking Michael and Adam with him.

Adam's head spins as he tries to process this. When he fully recovers his ability to speak, he grunts, "Are you saying…we were in Hell?"

"I think so," Sam replied. "I don't remember anything after falling, so I can't be sure."

"That's probably a good thing," Adam mutters, still trying to wrap his head around it all. He watches Sam again, not sure if he trusts him. The story about beating the Devil, even for a few minutes, is inspiring and all, but Adam isn't sure if it makes him more comfortable or more afraid of the older man.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "If it's anything like what happened to Dean when he went down, we'll start to remember eventually. Not really looking forward to that."

Adam starts at this particular grain of information. "Dean was in Hell."

It isn't a question, exactly.

Sam's expression twitches, a grim look in his eyes. "Forty years in the Pit; it was only four months up here."

Adam thinks on that. "Meaning, however long we were down there, we're going to have some pretty serious PTSD at some point." Other than what he is experiencing now, of course; his minor panic attack after he woke up is not going to be forgotten any time soon.

"Being stuck with two of the most powerful beings in the cosmos who are probably a little miffed that their pissing contest didn't pan out?" Sam grimaces. "Yeah, that's going to suck."

Adam doesn't try to hide his wince. Given how much the Winchesters fought them every step of the way, Adam doubts the archangels were very happy. He wonders if they blamed (blame?) him as much for their failure, whether he gave in to them from the get-go or not; neither Lucifer nor Michael seemed like the very forgiving types, from what he's heard and experienced.

It's probably best not to dwell on it, but Sam's thinking along the same lines.

"Things are especially going to suck if they were brought up as well," he points out. "Then again, if they were up here, I think we'd know it." He nods decisively, more to himself than to Adam. "So for now, we'll just act like they're still down there until we figure out what to do."

"'Do'? There's no 'do'," Adam tells him coolly. "As far as I'm concerned, if we stopped the Apocalypse, I should be back up there." He points skyward. "You're on your own."

Sam draws his eyebrows together. "So you're just going to sit around here and hope some angel beams you back to your prom?"

'Well sure it sounds stupid if you say it like _that_.' "You got any better ideas?"

"Look, just stick with me until we figure out what's going on," Sam implores, sounding exasperated.

Adam is tempted to counter with his own exasperation. Blood or not, since their initial meeting, they've known each other less than twenty-four hours, and in that time they haven't exactly focused on establishing trust. "What makes you think something's going on? Maybe we did our job, now we get to go on."

"You don't just get pulled out of Hell on a whim. Someone, somewhere, did something, and unless you really liked being Michael's sock puppet –"

"Yeah, forgive me for not trusting the guy who said 'yes' to Satan. That kind of thing doesn't exactly scream 'strength of character'."

"Neither does ignoring help from someone who knows a little more about the supernatural than you do," Sam retorts. "Or don't you remember those ghouls turning you and your mom into ceviche?"

It's a low blow, and Adam feels like taking another swing at the taller man, except…

Except he's right.

"Fine," Adam spits out, voice tight and jaw clenched. "Fine, I'll tag along. But if you don't find anything out, I'm leaving. I've had it with your psycho family issues and messing with stuff I've got no business messing with."

"Okay," Sam replies, looking relieved that Adam has given in so quickly. "Just…hang on a minute, and let me think…"

Adam turns away, rubbing his soaked arms in an attempt to stave off the cold. "Don't strain yourself contemplating the universe. I'll just sit here and freeze."

(*)

"Damn it, Dean, pick up your damn phone!" Sam practically snarls into the receiver of the payphone, before slamming the piece of plastic back down onto its cradle. He runs a hand through his bangs, trying hard to calm down the sense of frustration and gnawing fear that fill him whenever yet another phone number goes straight to voicemail.

It has been four hours now since leaving the shed where they waited out the rain. Once the weather cleared, Sam and Adam made the uncomfortable and silent eight-mile trek to the nearest approximation of civilization. They came to a stop outside of the local Wal-Mart, which is where Sam spotted the payphone.

By now, he knows what he must look like and is sure that Adam is pretending he doesn't know the crazed, still soaking wet man spewing curses inside the small Plexiglas box. Not there are any customers outside the superstore at seven in the morning, but if there were, Sam is conscious of how he and Adam would look to them. Truth be told, he's a little surprised that the local rent-a-cop hasn't come to ticket them for loitering in the parking lot.

Needing a break from a fruitless pursuit and time to think up a new plan, Sam steps out of the booth. Adam is looking up at the store logo with a frown, and snorts with not-quite-laughter when Sam gets into earshot. "You know, when I said we'd pop down to Wally World, this wasn't exactly what I meant."

Sam stares, blankly, and then shakes his head, frustrated. "I can't reach Dean – which makes no sense, because according to the date and time on the phone in there, it hasn't even been a full day."

Discovering that was a bit of a shock in and of itself. He would have expected it to take a lot longer to reopen the Cage, but as far as he can figure it, him and Adam have been gone for maybe six hours. On the one hand, it means they weren't going to have decades of torture to remember; on the other, it means someone deliberately restored them and then didn't stick around.

Sam keeps having nightmarish thoughts of Dean selling his soul again, and only stubborn denial keeps him from dwelling on those too long.

"Not that I'm interested or anything," Adam interrupts Sam's inner freak-out, "but why don't you try that friend of yours? The old guy – smelled like stale beer and Old Spice?"

"Bobby's dead," Sam replies tonelessly, pain and guilt flaring within him at the memory of that.

Adam's eyes widen. He actually looks a little bit apologetic. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs, and then frowns. Something akin to hope flutters to the surface of his thoughts, and he looks back at the phone booth thoughtfully. "But…but his place is the first place Dean would have gone after…after everything."

Because if Sam had been in Dean's place and just lost every remnant of his family in one afternoon, the first place he would go to would be Bobby's, whether the latter were there or not. It's home – not the way the Impala is, but still the first place Sam thinks of when he thinks of safety. He can't believe he didn't think of it right away.

Sam dives back into the translucent glass box and dials for the operator again, all the while trying to ignore the rapid, hopeful beat of his heart.

Several minutes later, the elation has ebbed away again.

Evidently, Dean is either not picking up or not at the salvage yard yet or already left or never went there in the first place. Which he wouldn't be, if he did make a deal –

"No go," Sam says miserably, interrupting his own thoughts with a brutal disavowal. He refuses to entertain the thought.

Surprisingly, something akin to disappointment passes over Adam's face. It occurs to Sam that perhaps Adam might be more comfortable with Dean, or at least the thought of him; it's understandable, granting that the older Winchester all but appeared in an obvious trap to save him. Whether Adam likes them or not, obviously he feels some kind of gratitude.

It's a feeling Sam knows all too well. Hasn't Dean saved him countless times? Most recently from himself and from the Devil?

This notion spurs him to action.

"We should go there," Sam announces. He is already out of the booth and determinedly crossing the blacktop. "It's a place to start, at least."

Adam follows, although Sam concedes that's probably done more for lack of having anything else to do than for actually wanting to go with him. "Where's there?"

"South Dakota."

"Right…and we're in…Kansas?"

"Yeah."

"And…us having no money to hop a bus or plane doesn't bother you?"

"Not so much, no."

Sam is already halfway across the deserted parking lot, searching left and right. They amble in silence down the street and past a decrepit looking Taco Bell a few blocks farther, before Sam finally stops beside a battered Jeep four-by-four that's hidden in the alley behind the building.

He doesn't hesitate, wrapping his elbow in his light coat and shattering the window of the left-back passenger seat (because he doesn't want glass stabbing him in the ass the whole way).

"What the hell are you doing?" Adam hisses, looking around in a panic. It's funny, Sam vaguely remembers being the voice of conscience once; he decides not to mention this to Adam at the moment.

Work to be done, places to go, brother to find and possibly beat bloody for possibly bringing him back. Which Sam is grateful for, of course, but every time one of them has been resurrected, no good things have come. Considering today was a two-for, he has every right to be a little paranoid.

"Getting us to Bobby's," Sam says finally, twisting himself around to unlock the driver's side door. Luckily the model is old enough that there is no alarm. The car smells strongly of coffee, sweat and tobacco.

"Can't you call your angel buddy to Nightcrawler us over there or something?" Adam asks nervously, obviously still waiting for someone to come by and arrest them.

"Cas is dead too."

"Oh," Adam said. As Sam swings himself into the driver's seat, he feels the young man's eyes on him. There is a pause before he remarks in an elaborately casual voice, "People don't really stay alive very long around you guys, do they?"

He doesn't really expect an answer, and Sam doesn't offer one as he leans under the dash and begins to hotwire the car. There is a tense period of silence before Sam manages to bind the right wires together and break the steering lock (contrary to every action movie ever written, it's not just about briefly mashing two wires together and then driving off into the sunset). The car roars to life beneath him. He sends the younger man an expectant look.

Adam sighs and wanders around to the front passenger's side. "Well, if you're hell-bent on grand theft auto, can we at least steal a cheeseburger or something? I feel like I haven't eaten in a month."

"Probably because you haven't," Sam tells him. His own stomach rumbles angrily and he remembers the last thing he consumed wasn't exactly a five course meal. He can almost taste the metallic, sulfuric blood as he puts the Jeep in gear; through concerted effort, he manages to keep his hands from shaking. He backs out of the alley, reflexively checking to make sure no one is following them.

The streets of the sleepy outskirts remain empty.

Adam stays rigid in his seat for a long time. His discomfort seems to be equal parts unease at participating in a theft and having to spend time in close quarters with a brother he never even knew and at this point probably doesn't even really like.

'This is going to be a long drive,' Sam decides, partially frustrated and partially saddened.

Rather than consign himself to the strained silence, he turns on the radio. The grungy sounds of Theory of a Deadman stream through the static of the old speakers, and Sam relaxes incrementally; the familiar song is soothing and normal, as opposed to the entire situation.

Adam makes a face, which Sam notices out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Seriously?" Adam intones.

"What?"

"You'd think someone who hunted demons for a living would have better taste in music."

Sam opens his mouth to retort and defend his choice, before he remembers himself; before he remembers he's not driving with Dean. Still, his brother's rules apply to this situation even if he isn't physically present.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam declares firmly as they start toward the highway.

Adam slumps in his seat, and grumbles, "This is going to be a long drive, isn't it?"

(*)

For the first time in his entire life, Dean feels claustrophobic in the Impala. The air is tense and suffocating with the absence of Sam, and for the hundredth time, Dean tries to fill it the best way he knows how. He turns the car stereo on as loud as he can, waiting for the bass to wash over him; after several seconds of surfing through the available songs, he flicks it back off again.

While he can't stand the deafening silence, the way the music tries to occupy the hollow spaces of his mind almost physically hurts.

He's listened to every tape in this car with Sam sitting next to him. Sam, bitching about Dean's taste in music or pretending to be so absorbed in whatever book of the week he was reading that he didn't notice he was mouthing the words and tapping out the beat against the arm rest. Dean never called him on it, because –

He feels a burning sensation in his eyes and his vision starts to blur.

'No.' He tells himself firmly, his mouth running dry. 'No friggen way.'

He isn't going to do this. He isn't going to cry, because he knows that if he starts, he won't be able to stop.

He veers off onto the shoulder of the road and slams on the breaks. The car screeches to a halt on the side of the road with a sound that would normally make him wince. This time, he doesn't give it a second thought.

He's out of the car and pacing back and forth on the edge, breathing hard and trying to swallow back the steadily building ache inside of him.

He doesn't know how to be on his own.

Those years when Sam was at Stanford were fine because Dean was with Dad; even when they hunted separately, Dean was able to function because he knew Sam was safe and Dad was invincible. If he ever entertained the slightest bit of worry, he could have braved the phone and called them. Later, when it was just Dean and Sam on the road – even the few times they went their own separate ways – there was always that knowledge that somewhere, Sam was alive and okay.

All the times when they lost friends or loved ones along the way – Dad, Ash, Pamela, Ellen, Jo – Sam was right there next to him and Dean was able to shrug everything off. Keep that stiff upper lip and keep going, because Sam was the one who deals – dealt – with all that girlie emotional crap because Dean never had time for it.

Now it's different.

Now it feels like those few short hours three years ago when Dean cradled Sam's broken body in his arms and was utterly clueless as to what he was going to do next. That time he was able to make a deal. As miserable and agonizing as forty years in Hell was, Dean knows he would make the same deal again in a heartbeat if it means yanking his brother out of the Pit now.

Except there's no demon alive that can make that kind of deal, and he's damned tempted to summon Crowley just to test that theory out. But he won't. Because Sam knew there was no coming back; he told Dean plainly, and he had accepted it.

Dean knows, deep down, that he has to as well.

He slides back into the driver's seat, but doesn't start up the engine again. Instead he presses his palms into his eyes, hoping it will ease some of the tension. He takes a few long, deliberate breaths, trying to calm himself down.

Slowly he manages to ease himself out of his emotional freak-out, and his heart rate begins to go down. His body is tense, and as the nervous energy dissipates, he is left with such a feeling of exhaustion that he can only lay his head back against the seat and wait to recover.

Two days without sleep catches up with you sometimes, and Dean can't help it when he finally drifts off into uneasy slumber with the hope that it will ward off the grief.

_He jolts awake almost immediately, consciousness overwhelming him with an inescapable feeling of loneliness and pain. He looks reflexively to the seat beside him, and its emptiness is like salt in the wound. Dean's had his soul shredded before and this phantom pain is somehow ten times worse than it was in Hell._

_Hell, he thinks with a sudden bizarre clarity._

_He's barely awake, but he guns to motor and pulls back onto the empty road. His thoughts rush by in flashes, conscience and memory warring for purchase, but he focusses instead on the one grounding thought._

_Sam._

_How he ever thought he'd be able to just up and let Sam go is a mystery to him, promise or not._

_He presses his foot down on the gas pedal, practically mashing it into the floor. The music is on again somehow, cranked as loudly as the car stereo will allow, Black Sabbath's heavy bass creating a steady rhythm that almost lifts the Impala off the road as she soars down the black ribbon of pavement. The beat echoes off of the hollow feeling inside of him, giving the illusion of life, and he grips the steering wheel harder._

_The bridge up ahead is a truss bridge of reinforced steel and concrete, meant to stop anything attempting to go over it, but Dean knows how strong his baby is. He built her back up from when a tanker steamrolled into her, which he wouldn't have been able to do if she wasn't strong. He knows the Impala will carry him beyond the steel beams and down into the river, although he doubts he'll be in very good shape before hitting the water._

_Suicides go to Hell, after all, and if he has to go there himself and fight through all the circles of the Pit to save the last of his family, he's going to do that._

_"Here I come, Sammy," he grinds out as he makes it onto the bridge. Offering up a silent prayer that Cas or one of his dick angels won't try to stop him, he veers violently toward the beams of the bridge – _

Dean jolts awake, inhaling painfully as he escapes the clutches of the nightmare. Still, he glances over reflexively, both to check for Sam and to see if Cas had something to do with his waking, but no; the angel is nowhere to be found. He tells himself that it doesn't bother him and frowns out through the windshield.

The sun glares at him accusatorially despite the canopy of trees he parked beneath. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he realizes he's been asleep for the better part of an hour since he pulled over. He lingers without moving, weighing his options.

His mind returns to the dream, dissecting it for what it was in an attempt to make it freak him out less. The first few minutes after Sam went under, he did consider an end like that. As much as he hated Hell, he'd brave it to get his brother out; but it was one of those options that was far down on the list – like, last resort far down. There's got to be a better way –

He's thinking of going after Sam again, but the dream is too fresh in his mind to ignore the idea. What if there was a way that he's just not thinking of?

Dean reaches for the glove compartment, empty now except for the old hunting journal of his father's, and he's already opened up the bloodstained, musty pages to examine it when he realizes what he's doing.

He stares at the handwritten words, unseeing, for longer than a standard minute, and then slowly, deliberately, puts the journal back into the compartment.

Through herculean effort he turns the key in the ignition and gets back onto the road toward Indiana, and tries desperately not to think about Sam.

(*)(*)(*)

The Jeep's tires toss gravel and mud up against the suspension and sides of the car, some of it flying in through the broken window behind Sam. In the passenger seat, Adam is unconscious, sleep having overtaken him about an hour into the drive. Sam didn't bother to wake him up, both because he knew his brother was probably as exhausted as he was and because he didn't relish the younger man complaining about his stomach again. As hungry as Sam himself was, he knew they couldn't draw attention to their obviously stolen vehicle by pulling into a McDonald's somewhere.

It still amazes him that they've made it to Sioux Falls on one tank of gas, and he silently sends out a guilty 'thank you' to the owner of the car.

The salvage yard is grimy, cluttered and so homey that Sam has to swallow the lump in his throat. Through the open window, he can smell the dirt and oil that he always associated with his father. John Winchester may have been a hunter, but he always smelled like a mechanic, even covered in blood.

Sam parks the car and turns off the engine. The sudden lack of motor rumbling beneath them wakes Adam.

"Dean's not here," Sam says after a moment and Adam quirks an eyebrow at him sluggishly.

"How can you tell? We only just pulled in."

"No sign of the Impala."

"Uh…so?"

"So, not even m – us rotting in a shallow grave would make Dean give up that car," Sam explains, hoping Adam didn't catch his slip up. He's so used to thinking of himself in terms of 'me and Dean' that it's odd to have to think of 'me and Dean and Adam' now. From the frown, Adam noticed, and Sam continues hastily, "If the car's not here, he's not here."

"Oh."

Unexpectedly, Sam senses something akin to disappointment in his brother. It shouldn't surprise him, really; he knows there are some very good reasons that Adam obviously doesn't really like him. And Dean was the one who tried to save them both, negotiating with Zachariah for their lives while Sam and Adam writhed in agony on the floor of the beautiful room. So, really, the fact that Adam might be more comfortable with Dean around shouldn't bother him.

Only it does.

"So, what now?" Adam asks, quickly, like he's trying to cover up something. Sam lets him.

"Bobby…had a lot of resources," he says, the pause after the old hunter's name born of grief and guilt. He forces himself to remain calm though. "Maybe there's something in his library that can explain how we're back. We can look around…and there's probably some food left in the fridge."

Adam looks rather cheered by this bit of news and follows Sam toward the front door. "You got a hide-a-key for this place, then?"

"There's no such thing as a hide-a-key when you're a hunter," Sam answers. There are no locks on the door because the types of things Bobby always worried about had no need of doors, let alone locks. "It'd be like rolling out the welcome mat for something to come kill you."

Adam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Wish I'd known that," and Sam watches him with a pained expression on his face. Adam noticed and jutted his chin out, defiantly. "How are we getting in then?"

Sam doesn't answer as he reaches forward and tries the doorknob experimentally; it turns, but the door doesn't budge. Truth be told, he didn't expect it to, because Bobby designed it so that it would only open normally from the inside. Only someone who knows the trick to it can open it from outside. Luckily, Sam happens to be one of the people that does know.

He carefully turns the doorknob to a specific degree and then maneuvers the full weight of the door up and out of the hidden groove in the sill; it's slow and precise process, but it's preferable to kicking down the door. It swings open, revealing the familiar cluttered interior of Bobby's front hallway.

"Seriously?" Adam asks blankly as they head inside. "After the no hide-a-key spiel you just MacGyver your way in? And it's not even reinforced?"

"Generally, you don't have to worry about something that can break in a door, because it's probably too late by then," Sam tells him. "Worry more about the things that can walk through the walls. Besides, the things that _are_ corporal enough to break down a door can usually be kept away by –"

BANG!

Sam reacts without thinking, hauling Adam down to the ground at the exact moment that a large chunk of the wall where his head was explodes.

"What the hell - !" Adam gasps, eyes wide, but Sam doesn't get a chance to reply as he hears the second peal of gunshot. Drywall and wood shavings rain down upon them.

"You sulfur-sucking sons of bitches must be real stupid to shift into those two bodies!" he hears an achingly familiar voice sneer, the words slurred. Sam can barely move as a ruddy-faced, wild-eyed and very much living Bobby Singer rounds the corner and takes aim at them again.

"B-Bobby!" Sam stutters, even as his body reacts to the threat of the sawed-off and pushes Adam out of the way.

"I thought you said he was dead?!" Adam hisses, terror and anger present in his voice.

'So did I,' Sam thinks in shock, joy at the revelation marred only by the fact that Bobby is still aiming the sawed-off at them.

The two of them duck around the doorway to the kitchen, and Sam motions for them to stay low as another shotgun round is fired nearby. He pushes Adam in the direction of the kitchen. "Go find some salt – and a silver knife. There's one he keeps on top of the coffee maker."

"What? Why - ?"

"Just do it!"

Miracle of miracles, Adam crawls on his hands and knees into the kitchen. As Sam tries to come up with a game plan, he hears him mutter, "Right, a homicidal maniac is using me for target practice, and you want me to break out the cutlery and condiments."

Bobby is yelling curses again, and Sam considers the merits of body checking Bobby if he could be sure he wouldn't get pumped full of led for his troubles.

"Seriously, how has the Department of Health not found this place yet?" Adam grumbles as he crawls back across the linoleum floor, a sodden box of salt in one hand and the knife in the other.

"Adam!" Sam cries, and surprisingly, Adam slides the knife toward him, looking as though he's unsure of the wisdom of brining a knife to a shotgun assault.

Sam catches it and straightens up, just in time to see Bobby take aim once again; without hesitation, he draws the blade across his forearm, barely noticing the flash of pain as a thick rivulet of blood winds down toward his wrist.

"Look, see?" Sam demands of the wild-eyed older man. "Bobby, if I was a shifter or a revenant, I couldn't do that, right?" Before Adam has time to react, Sam darts for him and grabs his hand, swiping a slightly shallower cut along the exposed skin of his arm.

"Hey!" Adam snarls, yanking his hand away. Sam doesn't pay any attention, instead holding Bobby's wary gaze as he grabs the box of salt, pours a handful and crams the white grains into his mouth. The salt burns his tongue and his throat, makes his eyes water, but he dutifully swallows it down, even while Adam swears and says, "You're nuts." Sam holds the box out to Adam, who shakes his head vociferously. "Yeah, uh, gonna pass on that. He can shoot me if he wants, that's disgusting."

The old man aims the shotgun again, and Adam throws up a hand as though it will stop the bullets and damn it, why does Adam have to be so much like Dean in the running-his-mouth-off department?"

"Bobby," Sam entreats, drawing the old hunter's attention back to him. His mouth is raw from the salt. "We're us." He wipes his hand across his mouth. "We'll go through any tests you can think if – just – put the gun down for a sec."

Bobby's expression is still distrustful, but his hold on the weapon has loosened. In fact, he is trembling now, eyes flicking wildly from Sam to Adam and then back. Sam is expecting him to keep the gun trained on them while he orders a slew of other tests, but he slowly does. Carefully, he sets it out of their sight, which suggests he's still not one hundred percent on board.

He begins to pace, still glowering at them. "You could be ghouls."

"Ghouls would have had to dig a long way to get to us," Sam reminds him gently.

"I s'pose…I s'pose I shouldn't be surprised," the older man murmurs softly, his voice heavy with emotion. He hunches, his shoulders crumpling inward in an almost defeated motion. In a quieter aside, he continues to mutter words Sam only catches a few of, "I knew…damn fool…something stupid…"

From the way he shoulder are moving, Sam thinks he might be crying. He starts forward, only to freeze when Bobby suddenly whirls around, brandishing an open switchblade. The part of the wall hidden behind him is now marked with a glistening red circle and corresponding symbols.

'Angel banishing sigil,' Sam's mind recalls just as Bobby presses his palm to the drawing.

After being connected to Lucifer, Sam feels the urge to tuck into himself as though expecting a blow.

None comes.

There is a lazy pulse of energy that whooshes past, but nothing happens.

Bobby gapes, shocked.

"Lucifer and Michael are gone," Sam murmurs hoarsely. "I swear. It's us."

"Maybe," Bobby admits, grudgingly but with a hopeful gleam in his eye. "Still got to be sure, though."

It takes the better part of an hour for Sam and Adam to be tested, much to the younger man's annoyance. They are poked, prodded, cut and scratched enough times that Adam starts complaining about tetanus, although he does eventually give into the salt-test. They inhale strong-smelling philtres meant to negate the effects of vodun zombie magic, and drink other potions meant to destroy the essence of a golem. Nothing affects them, which Sam is secretly surprised and pleased about. Although he was fairly sure everything about him was normal, the oddness of his and Adam's awakening has left him wondering.

When every test is exhausted, the remaining fire in Bobby's eyes diminishes and tears gather instead. An instant later, Sam finds himself tightly clasped in an embrace that might possibly be crushing his ribs but he's too thankful to care. For the first time since waking up, Sam feels the tension in his body dissipate.

When they pull apart, Bobby glances over at Adam, looking like he wants to hug him as well; he refrains, but claps the younger man gruffly on the shoulder and tells him it's good to see him again.

"Whiskey?" he offers both of them, grabbing a half-empty flagon from the counter. Judging from his bloodshot eyes, Sam can guess what happened to the rest of it.

Adam looks like he's about to accept, but Sam's growling stomach reminds him of why that isn't a good idea. He cuts his brother off with a curt, "Something to eat, maybe? It's…kind of been a while."

Bobby snorts. "I can imagine. The last thing you had in your gut was a stale pastrami sandwich and two gallons of demon blood."

Something inside Sam clenches, like all of his veins just froze up, and he barely hears Adam's groaned, "Yeah, thanks for that image."

Bobby makes a dismissive gesture. His lips tremble and as though he forgot his offer of hospitality, he asks tentatively, "How…?"

"No idea," Sam answers, honest and weary. "Something with a lot of juice. If it were so easy to open the Cage in a few hours, we wouldn't have been needed to break the seals in the first place. Whatever it was, it got us out – alive and with no angels bunking in our heads."

"Speaking of the recently resurrected," Adam interjects before Bobby can begin to speculate, "How are you walking around? Sam said you were dead."

"I was dead," Bobby answers. Sam looks away guiltily and Bobby snorts in the usual semi-exasperated way. "Relax, boy, I know it wasn't you in the driver's seat." He focuses on Adam again. "For a few minutes. And then next thing I know, I'm looking up at our friendly neighborhood angel."

"Cas?" Sam inquires, surprised and hopefully. "He's alive?"

"Yup. Said he thought God brought him back again." There is a pause. "You think it was God who brought you two back up?"

"You mean the same God that couldn't be bothered to stop that douchebag Zachariah from hauling me back to life so he could use me as bait?" Adam demands hotly before Sam can even answer. "Somehow I doubt it." Bobby is considering him in a thoughtful, amused way; probably because he sounds so much like Dean. "What?"

Bobby snorts again, shakes his head, and then looks to Sam. "If anyone could tell if God was the one to bring you back, it'd be Castiel. Send him a prayer and see if he knows."

Sam nodded, and looks skyward. "Uh, hey Cas, it's me – Sam – listen, I know you find my voice grating, but you think you could come down here and…maybe offer us some insight on why Adam and I are topside? Not that we're not grateful or anything…it'd just be nice to know we weren't brought up for another apocalypse…or something."

"You're rambling, boy," Bobby mutters, while Adam scoffs, "That's the worst prayer ever."

"Trust me, he's responded to worse."

They wait together in expectant silence, but when a minute passes with no indication of any angel showing up, Bobby shrugs. "Could be busy. Way I figure, he's got a lot of cleaning up to do there. You could try his cell."

"Heaven has cellphone coverage?" Adam wants to know.

Sam closed his eyes tight and concentrates really hard. 'Please, Castiel, we could really use some heavenly guidance here. I need to know why we're back…if Dean…did something. Because he would, you know? You know just as well as I do what kind of stupid crap he would do, so please, even if you don't come down for me and Adam, please, for Dean's sake…we need you.'

He peeks an eye open, looks around for the telltale rustle of feathers and the intense blue-eyed stare of the socially inept angel, but only Bobby and Adam return his gaze.

Sam forces a facetious smile on his face, despite the unease at being so blatantly ignored. "It's no use. He always did like Dean better." He feels the smile leave his face and he seeks out Bobby's gaze, remembering the entire reason he and Adam drove here. "Where is Dean?"

Bobby sighs heavily, considering his bottle again. "Left for Indiana about six hours ago. Haven't heard from him since."

(*)

'Decades of torture were nothing compared to this,' Dean decides furiously as he drives, for once careful not to go over the speed limit. He doesn't have the energy to talk his way out of trouble today. 'Where's Alistair when you need him?'

His translucent reflection in the windshield frowns at him, eyes reproachful.

The gallows humour is much too soon, he knows, but even feeling disgusted with himself is a better feeling than the nagging, sucking void he can't quite fight down. It's irrational, but then again, the logical side of him pretty much checked out when Sam did his swan-dive into Hell.

He suppresses a shudder at the memory. Some distant part of his mind knows that the image is going to come back to him for years – probably the rest of his life – playing at various speeds, whenever he tries to sleep or eat or fuck, but right now it's just easier to bury it beneath numbness and bad jokes.

To focus on something else, he studies the dash and sees that the gas tank is running on empty. He's really out of it if he didn't notice this before; his entire life he's lived by the rule of never letting the gage hover under a quarter full.

Stopping for gas is done out of necessity and maybe a subconscious wish to prolong the drive. Despite the unfamiliar claustrophobia of the Impala, it's still better than the unknown waiting for him at the end of the drive. He finds it funny (in a really pathetic way) how in the face of everything he's ever come up against, the idea of the normal life is downright terrifying.

He wonders if Sam ever felt like this when he was trying for the apple-pie life, and then pushes the thought out of his head as he pulls into the next rest stop.

He fills the tank and wipes insect guts and dust from the windshield, methodically giving the car a once over to make sure there's nothing loose or faulty, and then goes into the small station to pay.

He has just enough cash, and for the moment he regrets torching his cards and the fake identification. He'll probably have to stop off somewhere with a pool table at some point if he wants to keep himself in gas and beer, but it's a whimsical thought right now.

Sounds of conversation drift in through the open window, and while Dean is barely able to make out the specifics over the fan running instead of air conditioning, his attention is drawn to it.

"– did you hear what happened at Clyde's?"

"No, what?"

"George Stibbs is dead."

"No!"

Dean falters in the act of handing his money over to the station attendant, automatically tuning himself further into the discussion.

"A-yup. Went out to bum a smoke, his buddies come out about a half-hour later, find him stone dead. Not a mark on him."

A silent curse and then, "What happened?"

"Tom down at the sheriff's office says near as they can figure, he was strangled."

"But you said there were no marks."

"Uh-huh."

"Shit." There's a pause. "Sounds an awful lot like what happened to Elmer Fowle last month."

"Sir?" Dean wrenches himself back to the present, eyeing the attendant who is handing his receipt and some coins back to him. "Your change?"

"Thanks," Dean said, pasting an easy smile on his face out of habit. He heads out of the store and passes the two men talking. They lean unconcernedly against the building, smoking and not paying any attention to Dean as he goes by.

It's on the tip of his tongue to question them about what he just heard, but he stops himself just in time, remembering his promise. Hunting is definitely not honoring his word and he has to steel himself to his oath.

'Not my job anymore,' he reminds himself as he strides purposefully back to his car and gets in.

He doesn't immediately drive off, though.

He finds himself thinking about the consequences of not staying – of the people that are probably going to keep dying mysterious deaths until whatever's doing it grows bored and moves on to its next victims. Of the people not only in this small highway community, but everywhere else where the supernatural sons of bitches decide to pop up and will keep doing so without anyone to stop them.

Dean knows that many hunters died in the Apocalypse that wasn't, that no one can really afford another hunter dropping off the grid.

He remembers how almost six years ago in Chicago he told Sam that there was always going to be something to hunt. That it was never over.

There's a stinging ache in the back of his throat and he's tempted to call Cas, just to have someone to bitch at, to scream and shout and possibly beat his fists against. He knows the angel would probably let him, too; for some reason, he isn't bothered by the idea of losing control of himself in front of Cas. Most likely because Cas saw him at his absolute worst in Hell. Maybe because he's seen Cas lose control and beat the ever loving shit out of him too, but he actually deserved it that time.

'Not that it matters.'

Cas left, right when he actually needed him (although he was never going to come out and say it like that because he still has a penis the last time he looked). The angel went to play Cool Hand Luke up top and Dean isn't going to call him down just so that he can give into his inner girl and sob in the angel's arms.

He reaches for the radio, not wanting to have to think about anything supernatural any more. He can at least stomach the sound now, but he doesn't turn on any music. His cassettes remain in their box and he doesn't push the existing tape into place. Instead, he switches the radio to some political talk show and lets that fill up the emptiness created by the silence.

(*)

Adam sits at the kitchen table, single-mindedly cramming his face with what has to be both the best and worst sandwich in existence, cobbled together from whatever edible food that could be found in Bobby's fridge.

He is alone right now, Bobby and Sam having retreated to another room for a super-secret meeting of the minds. Sam tried a few more times to gain the angel's – Castiel, Adam remembers – attention before finally giving up. Bobby said it was just as well because they didn't really want to chance the prayer ending up heard by another angel.

"Wouldn't put it past them to off you on principle," he said gruffly to Sam, and then peered between him and Adam. "Or worse, take both of you off and try to restart the Apocalypse. Angels are single-minded that way."

That's at least something Adam knows to be true, and given how much he's really not sure of at the moment, that's saying something.

He is contemplating making up another of the horrendous sandwiches despite feeling like he might just upchuck, when his ears zero in on the voices in the other room.

"– need to borrow a car," he hears Sam say quietly, and perks up a little. "I can't just show up at an airport with a stolen ride."

"Airport?" Bobby returned, voice neutral. "Flyin' somewhere?"

"Cicero. I'm going to find Dean."

"If he even ended up there," Bobby mutters darkly. Adam slowly gets up from the table and slinks across the floor, frowning in curiosity. "He could have been lying about that for all I know. You saw the melted plastic in the backyard – there's no way we've got to contact him. Hate to say it, but with you two here – maybe he's already gone and done something stupid."

"I don't believe that," Sam says fiercely, although it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than actually being sure. "Dean promised, and as shady as this whole situation is, I've got to trust in that. It's the only start I've got."

"Sam…"Bobby sighs, and after hesitating a spell, plods on, "What are you gonna do if you do find him? You just gonna waltz in, give him the shock of his life and drag him back here with you so you two can hit the road again?"

Adam grits his teeth at the way the old hunter says 'you two', knowing with certainty that they've probably forgotten about him again. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. Dick that he was, Zachariah had a point about the Winchester brothers; they've got blinders on when it comes to one another.

"Of course not!" Sam is protesting. "I'd want him to stay where he could be happy – that's the whole reason I told him to go in the first place –"

"But he won't," Bobby says firmly. "He sees you – the minute he sees you're alive and kickin', he's gonna drop everything and come with you."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to not tell him I'm alive?" Sam demands. He lowers his voice, "That…that Adam's not alive?" At the sound of his name, Adam focusses even harder on the conversation. "Bobby, if Dean wants the normal life, fine. I want that for him too – more than anything. And if the only way to be in his life is to give up hunting, then I can do that. I've done it before, I can do it again."

"Kid, you've done it – and you still keep coming back," Bobby points out with the delicacy of a doctor revealing a terminal diagnosis. "It's not in you to quit – you've seen too much. You know once you're in this, you're in it for life whether you want it or not."

Adam tenses at that, his heart thudding in his chest at that revelation. His thoughts flash back to his life before, and he wants nothing more than that. And here's some old coot saying he won't get that back now?

"If that's true, then Dean trying to have the apple-pie life is doomed from the start," Sam is saying bitterly.

"Maybe," Bobby allows, "but maybe not. Maybe he'll be able to make the break, thinking you're gone. Don't you think he deserves the chance to try? The worst that can happen is he'll come back to the life and find out – "

"That we've been alive and didn't tell him? That's a pretty shitty thing to do."

"I know. All's I'm sayin' is – I'm just giving you some things to keep in mind. It's your decision, kid. He's your brother and the final say's yours. It's a long enough trip there that you can think on it," Bobby placates. "But you know, Dean's not the only one you should be worrying about. He's a grown man. Can think for himself and make his own decisions – when they're not damn fool ones at that."

"…you mean Adam."

Adam holds his breath as they start to talk quieter.

"That kid in there doesn't know which way's up right now. Can you imagine being ripped out of Heaven and stuffed back here in the mud and filth?"

Adam feels a rush of surprised gratitude toward the man. It's the first time since he was brought back by the angels that he's heard anyone voice a care at how he's feeling about this whole clusterfuck and not concentrating on how he can be or is being used for some celestial being's delusions of grandeur. Sympathetic as Sam has tried to be, it's always come off like he has some kind of expectations for Adam – expectations he doesn't know if he can or even wants to live up to.

"…done with this nonsense and then got dragged back out," Bobby continues to lecture. "Hell is one thing – even demons can't wait to get out, but right now, that kid ain't happy. Wouldn't be surprised if he was slightly suicidal right now – and that's before y'all have even remembered anything about your little trip."

Adam makes a face. The accusation is a little over the top, but still close enough to home that he feels a painful ache in his chest.

"What is it you want me to do, Bobby?" Sam sighs. "Sit around and hold his hand? He can't stand me as it is, and I can't even blame him for that. Short of summoning Cas or some angel to bring him back up to Heaven –"

"I get the feeling whoever hauled you boys up wants you alive, so Heaven's kind of counterproductive, don't you think?" Bobby deadpans. "Besides, best I can figure, you boys are as far off Heaven's radar as possible right now, or you'd never have made it here in one piece. Might want to keep it that way for a bit, until we figure out what's going on."

There's a heavy, thoughtful silence, before Sam speaks again. He sounds awkward and apologetic. "Yeah, you're…you're right. I want to do right by Adam, but – I need to find Dean. The last thing he saw was me throwing myself in to the Cage. Even if he didn't do something to bring me and Adam up, I still need to find him."

Adam doesn't hear what happens next as he returns to the table. He's angry – at Sam, obviously – but more for himself, because he feels a little bit hurt to realize just how far he ranks behind Dean. It shouldn't bother him; the only person who ever put him first was his mother. Evidently the Winchester prerogative doesn't cover illegitimate sons or half-brothers.

'Which is fine,' he tells himself firmly, trying to get a hand on the conflicting feelings and emotions that have been warring in him since he coughed the dirt out of his lungs as an angel pulled him out of the ground.

He's definitely not trying to sort out those feelings when Sam returns, awkward and freakishly too big for the kitchen.

'Was his mom on steroids when she was pregnant with him?' Adam thinks waspishly.

"So, listen…uh, I'm going after Dean," Sam says needlessly. "If you want to come with me – I mean, I was going to hop a plane, but if you want we can drive – Dean'll be happy to see you. He really beat himself up when we couldn't save you, er, both times."

Adam narrows his eyes in response. "You know, you don't have to try so hard."

"What are you talking about?"

"This whole 'concerned older brother thing'," Adam tells him matter-of-factly. "It's crap – and for what? So we can be some happy family? 'Cause if that's what you're going for, it's not going to happen."

Sam looks as if he's been slapped in the face, and even though he's not exactly Adam's favorite person in the world right now, he feels slightly guilty. So he amends his tone a little, making it a little more neutral and less abrasive.

"I appreciate you bringing me here and wanting to find out what's going on – and yeah, it's a nice dream that we can all just get along now – but the truth is, you and Dean and me? Worlds apart," Adam explains, trying to rehearse everything he's been thinking since getting into the car with Sam. "I'd, uh, I'd kind of like to keep it that way. If I'm getting another shot, I'm going back home."

"Adam –"

"I had a life, school, a girlfriend and – no offense – people who actually gave a rat's ass about me because they happened to like me, not because we have the same DNA."

For a moment, Adam expected him to argue. In the short time he'd known him, he'd learned that Sam was nothing if not tenacious. Part of him wanted Sam to talk him out of it, to prove that he was just as invested in keeping Adam around as Dean. He couldn't account for that part of him, didn't understand it and didn't want to.

But Sam simply studied him for a long moment, and then asked, "Is that what you really want?"

The question was loaded with something, and Adam tried hard not to question what it was. His answer stalled somewhere on his tongue for some reason, but he forced it out before Sam noticed. "Yes."

Sam nodded, thoughtfully, like he was steeling himself for something. Then he smiled tightly at Adam. "Alright. Windom's on the way to Minneapolis. I'll drop you off."

Surprised by the ease with which the older man gave in, Adam couldn't help wondering, "Minneapolis? I thought you said Dean was in Indiana?"

"The only available flight leaves from Minneapolis in four hours," Sam explains. "It's the fastest way I can think of getting there."

"Oh."

"Come on. Bobby's lending us a car. Let's go."

(*)(*)(*)

Considering how the last plane he was on nearly crashed into the blinding column of light that was Lucifer rising from the Cage, Sam thinks it's understandable to be a little nervous in the window seat of the small passenger airliner. He's not exactly Dean-nervous – Sam's never seen anyone as bad when it comes to flying – but he's not completely at ease either.

He flexes his fingers, suddenly remembering the feel of tendons ripping in his hands and bone shattering beneath his feet as Lucifer lovingly slaughtered the demons that had conspired to influence Sam's life. He remembers the begging, the texture of their intestines and the taste of the blood as it sprayed –

Sam begins to shake and has to force himself to stay still. He can't afford a relapse right now.

Whatever brought him and Adam back, brought Sam up purged of the demon blood he ingested before confronting Lucifer, but it didn't destroy the craving. It isn't like the last time when someone – God, if Castiel is to be believed – yanked him out of harm's way and vaporized the tainted blood in the process.

This time, he's conscious of the absence, like there might still be the barest residue in his veins making him want. He's been able to ignore it since waking up – too focused on Dean, then on getting Adam where he wanted to go – but now that he's been sitting for a few hours, he can't escape thinking about it.

'God's obviously not the one who raised us,' Sam decides, 'or the blood taint would have been completely destroyed. I wouldn't even notice.'

The fact that he can still feel it reminds him of when they encountered Famine, when even after detoxing for days and being deemed clean by Castiel, he still had to fight off cravings for months. Right up until Detroit.

'It's just something I'm going to have to live with,' he decides, frowning in concentration. He supposes it's the same as with any other addiction, that he'll keep yearning for it the rest of his life. 'All the more reason to give up hunting; take away a good fifty-percent of the temptation right there.'

This brings him back to the reason he's on the plane. In a few short hours, he'll see Dean again – if Dean hasn't fucked off somewhere Chris McCandless style – and he'll be able to apologize for everything, and they'll be able to figure out what they're going to do now.

'If Dean's brain doesn't short out in shock when I show up.'

Sam recalls his own momentary shut-down when Dean miraculously appeared in his hotel room four months after being torn to shreds by a Hellhound.

"You boys die more than anyone I've ever met," their friend Ash told them once. Sam's beginning to believe that more and more. To be fair, he wasn't exactly dead when he jumped into the Cage (he doesn't think), just trapped in some hell dimension with two pissed off archangels.

'Speaking of archangels…what the hell happened to Michael and Lucifer?'

Bobby was still searching for any sign of them when Sam left South Dakota with Adam, but hadn't found anything out of the ordinary when Sam checked in before boarding. That doesn't necessarily mean that they're still locked in the Pit; just because they aren't possessing their vessels anymore doesn't mean they can't be floating around, lying in wait.

Sam shudders, before comforting himself with the thought that Castiel would have showed up with a warning by now if they were.

He hopes.

It's a little worrying that the angel hasn't made an appearance since Sam and Adam returned. Sam tells himself it's just an annoying angelic quirk, a confirmation of Castiel's preference for Dean over him. He's obviously not doing a good job convincing himself, because at the back of his mind, he wonders if Cas isn't in some kind of trouble. If Lucifer and Michael are about, they're going to be as happy with Cas as they are with Sam and Dean.

He glances out the portal window, biting his lip and wishing the plane could fly as fast as angels can.

"Here I always heard Dean was the nervous flier," a smooth, rich voice chuckles beside him.

Sam's eyes go wide and his head whips in the direction of the voice, staring in astonishment at the figure sitting next to him.

He's not sure how he didn't notice him sit down, because the man is almost as tall as Sam and so broad across the shoulders it makes the small airline seats comically tiny. A familiar long face and intense, dark eyes watch him thoughtfully, and the man offers Sam a look that isn't a smile, but isn't a leer either.

"Hey Sam."

"Jake…"

For someone who's been dead for three years, Jake Talley looks pretty good; even his uniform remains immaculate. It doesn't stop all of Sam's hunting senses from screaming.

"How…?" Sam's eyes flick around the plane, checking to see if the other passengers noticed the new arrival.

"Don't worry about them. People see what they want to see," Jake says easily.

Sam gapes. "How are you here?"

"Same way you are. Strong mojo," Jake shrugs. "Though with me, it's temporary. I'm only here to give you a message. The one who brought me up was very explicit in his orders."

"And who was that?"

Jake snorts. "Who else do you know that can pluck dead souls out of wherever they are on a whim?"

Sam remembers an entire town riddled with the rising dead. He remembers exactly who was responsible for that. "You're not going to turn into a flesh-eating zombie, are you?"

He's really not averse to having to bash Jake's head in if that's the case. He's never really forgiven him for the whole 'stabbed-me-in-the-back-an-inadvertantly-set-the-Apocalypse-in-motion' thing.

"Won't be here long enough for that. The big man gave me a specific time limit."

"Why would Death - ?" Sam cuts himself off with a swallow. "Is he the one that brought us back?"

Jake raises an eyebrow. "Last I heard, you were possessed by the Devil, not dead. And your soul's not walking around without a body."

Sam makes a face. "You could have just said 'no'."

"It's been a while since I had a decent conversation with someone," Jake replies. "Was never much for talking when I was alive, but when you spend enough time on the rack…" He breaks off with a shudder.

Sam tenses. "If you've been down there as long as you have, why aren't you a demon?"

"Oh, I am," Jake says quietly, "but Death put me back to the way I was before I killed you so we could talk. He seemed to think it would make you…trust me a little better."

'Not likely,' Sam doesn't say, but that fact doesn't stop him from asking, "What's so important that he has to raise the dead to give me a message?"

"This stubborn idea of yours to go after Dean is a bad one," Jake states bluntly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means you shouldn't be going after Dean. You should let him alone for a bit while things quiet down."

"I'm _not_ going to just let him go on thinking I'm dead – "

"Even if it saves his life?"

That takes the wind out if his sails. If Death's trying to tip him off about Dean being in danger, Sam's all ears. "How?"

"Everyone in Heaven, Hell and everywhere in between gets that you and Dean are strongest together," Jake tells him without preamble. "But you also seriously weaken each other. Case point, Apocalypse."

"Skip this, I already know it."

"There's something coming, Sam, something that's going to need you at your strongest. So the idea is for you to rest and recoup while you can, because it's going to be too late soon." Jake is staring at something that Sam can't see, and he wonders if he's only seeing a projection of the former soldier. "You really want to be responsible for your brother dying…again?"

"He wouldn't have had to die if you hadn't stabbed me in the back to play hero," Sam hisses an accusation.

Jake raises his hands defensively. "I'm not proud of what I did. At the time, it seemed like the best tactical move. If I knew what that one decision was going to do…" He trails off, still apologetic. "Being on the other side gives you a certain perspective."

"Well, from this side, your perspective is skewed, especially if you think I can save my brother's life by not telling him I'm back."

"I didn't say it should be a permanent thing," Jake tells him. "The only message I was supposed to give you is that something's coming and that you and your brothers need to stay alive." His eyes harden, looking similar to that night when the gate to Hell was opened in Wyoming. "But as a soldier and as someone who got royally screwed over by demons playing with my life? The best thing you can do to prepare for what's coming is to lie low and get yourselves strong again." The steely glint disappears and a sad smile tugs at his lips. "The choice is up to you, though, isn't it? We both know you're still going to go find Dean when this plane lands."

"I have to," Sam says stiffly. "He's my brother."

"Adam's your brother too," Jake points out. The reminder comes out of left field, and Sam winces at the pang of guilt. "But you let him just up and disappear. He was brought back for the same reason you were."

"Which is?"

"Classified," Jake answers promptly. "I'm not allowed to tell you that. Believe it or not, I don't even really know much more than what Death told me to tell you."

For some reason, Sam believes him.

He glances away, thoughts churning a mile a minute. They sit in silence for a long while, and it isn't until after the captain comes on the intercom to announce the imminent descent that the ex-soldier speaks again.

"Can I ask a favor?"

Sam starts, and then narrows his eyes. "A favor."

"I know I don't deserve it after what I did, but you're the only…" For the first time, Jake falters, his deliberate calm wavering and there is a flash of what he must look like now – desperate, terrified and tortured. "I can't talk to anyone else…where I am."

Sam nods slowly. "Go ahead."

"My mom and my sister – can you look in on them? They live in Jacksonville, down in North Carolina," Jake requests quietly. "They never found out what happened – I don't want them to. But everything I ever did up until that last bit, it was for them." His gaze is intense. "They're good people, Sam, never did anyone any harm. If they're okay, I think…I think I can bear Hell for them."

And really, who is Sam to argue with an argument like that, especially considering his background? "I'll do my best."

"Thanks."

Jake's gratitude is quiet, and when Sam blinks, he suddenly finds himself alone in his seat, staring at the empty spot next to him.

(*)

"Hiya, Dean!"

"Jesus fuck!" Dean snarls, briefly losing control of the steering wheel in the few seconds it takes him to recognize his surprise passenger and automatically reach for the .45 tucked down the driver's side. It is only the pressing need for his hands to be on the steering wheel which keeps him from lashing out at the smiling little girl that bounces up and down in the passenger seat.

A fact that he is going to rectify as soon as possible, he decides as he slams on the breaks and veers off the paved road.

Lilith looks the same as the night Dean first died, gap-toothed and dimpled, trussed up with pretty blond hair and a frilly pink dress.

His mouth is dry as he feels around for the firearm. "You're dead."

"Yup, I know," she tells him, seemingly unbothered by that fact. "Your little bro did a really good job with that." Her beaming expression changes. "But you did something really bad, Dean. You made my Daddy go away and now things are going to be a lot messier than they were supposed to be."

Dean has the gun to her temple and his finger is on the trigger. "Last words, bitch?"

She ignores him, turning to stare down the barrel of the gun. "You know, if you shoot you're just going to end up putting some useless holes in your pretty car."

He unclicks the safety. "Day like I'm having today? I'll risk it."

"But then you won't get to hear what I have to say," she pouts.

"Unless you're here to tell me how I can get Sam out, I don't care."

"Nuh-uh-uh, silly goose," Lilith wags her finger at him. "Death didn't send me here to talk about Sammy –" Dean tenses, both at the mention of the last Horseman and his brother, "he sent me to talk about you. And to remind you about something you _promised_ him in Chicago." She purses her lips. "You can't go after Sammy, Dean-o. That's not allowed."

"Ask me if I give a shit."

Lilith narrows her eyes. "That's bad language, you know. I hope you have a swear jar."

"Cut the cryptic crap," Dean orders, "and quit dicking me around with this littler girl act. If I have to friggen talk to you, at least have the decency to look like the leggy blond."

"I don't wanna," she sticks out her tongue, "and you can shoot me if you want, but it won't do anything. I'm here until I give you my message."

Dean's jaw clenches. "Spit out what you have to say and get lost."

"That's the plan," Lilith chirps brightly. "Wasn't gonna stay long, anyway. You need things made pretty simple. Sammy was always smarter…and prettier, too. Really dreamy. Like the Nick Jonas, only without the purity ring."

Dean growls.

Lilith rolls her eyes. "Fine – sheesh, you're such a spoil-sport. Death's message for you is this: stay on the bench from now on, because if you get yourself killed any time soon chasing after Sammy, he's going to be cranky. And that might make him do something really drastic, like reap you and your brother from existence. For good."

Dean blinks at the implied threat. If Death decides to take Dean and Sam out himself, it would mean they were done. They would completely cease to exist. For the barest glimmer of a second Dean considers that perhaps that might be a good idea – after all, it's hard to have the universe screw up your life if you don't exist. And from what he's seen of Heaven and Hell, he's not sold on going to either of them.

Granted, Heaven would at least have some kind of memory version of his brother he could cling to for an eternity of memory on loop and pretend like it was real. It'd be nice to see Ash and Pamela again – Ellen and Jo if they're there. Heck, maybe even Mom and Dad, considering Dean never really found out where his parents ended up.

Ash said that John and Mary Winchester's souls weren't in Heaven, and part of Dean knows that it was because they checked out while still on earth. Missouri Moseley said Mom's soul was destroyed cleaning out that poltergeist in Lawrence, and the way Dad disappeared after the shakedown with Azazel in Wyoming was anything but normal. Still, Dean clings to the belief that they didn't end up in Heaven or Hell; either they're still wandering around on Earth or they went to the same place all the dead spirits and creatures ended up.

The thought is both worrying and comforting, because it means serious monster souls, but at least there's a chance his parents are together. They were both hunters, and what better way to keep a marriage strong than ganging demons side by side in a pocket dimension filled with creatures, while –

He scrubs his free hand across his face as his thoughts spiral rapidly out of control. While for a second they weren't focussed on Sam, thinking about Mom and Dad and everyone else he's lost in the past few years isn't really much better. Now the thought of a fake reunion in Heaven is painful.

Pretending won't work. Dean will always know it's bogus; it will always be fake up there, just memory and mind. He isn't sure if that's not worse than Hell. At least in the Pit, everything – every slice of the knife and every flaying of skin – was real.

'Torture is simple and Heaven's a lie,' he thinks grimly, 'and that just makes everything worse. So yeah, being reaped out of existence would maybe suck less…'

But it would completely eradicate the possibility of one day figuring out how to help Sammy – and little brother's extortionist promise aside, on a basic level he's never going to forget the number one law of Dean Winchester: Protect Sam. Sam ceasing to exist would completely invalidate that one.

"So, I'm just supposed to sit here and do nothing," Dean inquires coldly.

"I thought that was the plan anyway," Lilith asks cheerfully. "Isn't that why you're running away to begin with?" She beams. "I think the Old Man is trying to make sure you stick to that plan."

"Yeah, well, sending you with a message is making me rethink that whole 'bench' issue," Dean sneers. "Why the hell did he send you, anyway?"

"Obviously because he's too busy to come see you in person – what, you think you're actually important?" she snorts.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of dead people out there – and a lot that I killed, so why the hell did he send you, other than to give me a fucking heart attack?"

"I killed you, didn't I? Maybe not myself, but I was holding your contract and my puppy Mr. Mittens was the one who made you into pretty ribbons," the little girl says thoughtfully, picking invisible lint off of her dress.

"You weren't the first person to kill me – tell the truth, I'd rather the sweet-sucking, greasy haired winged dick over you any day."

"Who, the Trickster?" Lilith cocks her head to one side, the gesture utterly different from the way Castiel does it. "Oh, that poop-head didn't actually kill you. You'd have been stuck in Hell for keeps if he'd let your soul scamper off – and even Gabby couldn't just stroll through Hell whenever he wanted." She grinned toothily. "Nope, I'm the lucky one that got you for reals first."

Dean grits his teeth. "Yeah, mazel tov and all that. I'm going to shoot you now."

"I think the nice police man behind you might have a problem with that."

"What the – " Before he can stop himself, he turns to see if what she's saying is true, a story on his lips already forming as to why he's pointing a gun at a six-year-old.

There is no one outside the car, and when he turns back, Lilith was gone as well.

Dean swears and lowers his gun. To his disgust, his hands are shaking, and although he knows it has nothing to do with Lilith's appearance, it does little to comfort him.

The list of things that actually scare him shitless is pretty short, but if he's honest with himself, Death is definitely in his top three – somewhere beside Hellhounds and flying. It's not so much the actual process of dying – he's been there, done that and bought the crappy novelty t-shirt more often than he knows. No, it's the Horseman himself. Just thinking about the cold empty eyes and the utter _otherness_ is enough to make Dean shudder.

And if Death is really adamant about him not pursuing Sam, Dean's got a really hard decision to make.

(*)

The air is crisp and cool for spring in Minnesota, laced with the scent of rain that has followed him from Kansas. Adam hefts the knapsack over his shoulder and stares up at the house, temporarily at a loss.

The place looks exactly the same as it did that night he returned to town a year ago, frantic with worry after seven hours of driving like a madman because Mom was missing. There's a realtor's sign on the front lawn and no sign of a car in the driveway, so he figures the bank probably took back to house when Mom died and he disappeared.

Too cheap to clean the place up, he decides as he looks things over again. The lawn still looks like it's a few days overdue for a cut, the window frames need to be sanded and the whole house needs to be painted.

It's going to be a hassle getting it back, he thinks vaguely as he wanders up the walkway and kneels down to shift a loose cobblestone near the doorway. He's surprised the spare key is still there. It's a relic of his high school days, back when he would come home to an empty house and a note about whatever freeze-dried meal he'd be making for dinner.

"You're absolutely sure you want to do this?" Sam asked him as he they pulled into a rest stop off the I-90. In the hour long drive from the salvage yard, Sam filled him in on what exactly happened when the creature responsible for Adam's death lured the Winchesters to Windom. He kept the details to a minimum, but Adam couldn't help feeling sick once the tale was over.

"…yeah."

"You've been gone for almost a year now. Dean and I…" He inhaled deeply, as though trying to steady his voice. "Look, we cremated you, so no one actually knows you've been dead, but we – the police found enough genetic material from your mom to know she is. People are going to wonder what the hell happened – you don't even know if you have a home to go back to."

"I'll deal with that if I have to," Adam replied firmly.

Sam nodded, resigned. "Just as long as you're prepared for what might happen. Here –" He reached into the back seat and pulled out an old knapsack, pressing it into Adam's grasp. "In case you don't have anywhere to stay, there's some money for a motel, some clothes and other essentials. I put one of my cellphones in there, too. It's got mine and Bobby's numbers – in case anything happens or if you need anything."

Adam shrugged in response.

"Okay," Sam said, and put the car in gear. "Uh, keep in touch, alright?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Adam watched him drive off and merge onto the highway. All the while, he carefully told himself how much he didn't care and how he didn't really wish he'd chosen to go along.

He must not have been very convincing, because even as he turns the key in the lock and lets himself into his home, he's still wondering about the _'what if'._

The house smells of the same wood varnish and potpourri he grew up with, but it's significantly emptier. The furniture is almost all gone, and what isn't has been covered by tarps, either by well-meaning neighbours or the realtor trying to pass the place off as a furnished domicile. Most likely his family's missing belongings have all been given to Goodwill, but if he's lucky they might be stored somewhere. Maybe the basement; he'll check later, if he really feels like going looking.

The house is full of memories, and he finds himself having trouble breathing.

This is where he learned to make paper airplanes and set up his model trains; all of his birthdays were here at home, because they couldn't afford fancy parties, but that was alright because Mom was a great cook when she was home to do it. He remembers watching horror flicks with his mother every Saturday night and eating cereal at midnight when he couldn't sleep and Mom taking those terrible pictures of him and Kristen McGee on prom night, back when he still had braces and –

He shakes his head and fights back tears.

Abruptly starving, he sags down against the hallway arch, not wanting to touch any of the covered furniture just yet, and fishes through the bag Sam gave him. He finds the sandwiches just beneath the clothing; evidently Sam's better than Adam at rustling together something edible from very little, because these look infinitely better than the one Adam made for himself earlier.

Maybe it's just a matter of practice, he muses as he eats and examines the loaner phone, flipping it open to scroll through the contact list. There are only three numbers: Sam's, Bobby's and an 'Assistant Director Tom Willis'. The latter is one that Sam told him to call if he gets in legal trouble. Adam saw the same name taped to one of the phones in Bobby's kitchen, so it doesn't take much effort to put two and two together.

He tosses the phone back into the bag and digs around more, snorting when he sees what Sam meant by essentials: a box of salt, a flask of water (holy water, probably) and a switchblade he figures is made out of silver.

'So much for going back to normal,' he thinks as he brushes his thumb over the surface of the flask.

Things will never be completely normal, he knows, even if he does manage to pick up the pieces. He's still going to be salting the doors and windows; he might even cave and call Bobby for suggestions of how to protect himself from being eaten again or being hijacked by angels.

But he will not call Sam.

He very adamantly doesn't want anything to do with him. It feels too much like accepting Sam and Dean is a betrayal of the memory of his mother, like he's choosing his absent father's family over her.

The sandwich finished, he straightens up again and decides if he's going to get things back to normal, he has a few phone calls to make. He wonders if the phone in the kitchen is still there or still hooked up.

He is half-expecting Mom to be just around the corner, looking through the cupboards to see if there's any food in the house or whether they're going to have to make one of their last minute grocery runs where they always overspend and –

He is almost floored when he stops in the middle of the kitchen and sees that she _is_ there.

His brain almost short-circuits, and he can barely whisper, "Mom?"

A bubble of hope escapes – did the angels perhaps resurrect her too?

But then she smiles, and the particular twist of it is unlike anything he's ever seen on his mother's face before. There was only one time he saw that look before, and as he remembers when, his stomach threatens to up chuck the sandwich.

"Hi Adam," the thing purrs, "Long time no eat."

He can't move, and it's only after several seconds of silence where neither of them speaks that he becomes aware of the fact that he's been holding his breath. The constricting lack of oxygen forces him to gulp at the air, and he only hopes that it doesn't come out as gasping as it sounds.

"Aw, come on Adam, here I thought we had gotten over that whole awkward phase," the thing wearing his mother's face grins. "Of course, I was eating your intestines at the time, so maybe that was just the shock – but still. You're hurting my feelings."

'Ghoul,' Adam tells himself, straining to remember anything Sam said to him. The conversation was short and vague, more meant to assure Adam that the things that killed him and his mother were dead – 'Yeah, obviously not,' – instead of a how-to manual but he thinks there was something about their heads. They're like zombies or something. His eyes flick toward the knapsack, which he left on the landing, and he curses inwardly.

His thoughts are obviously showing on his face, because the creature snorts and hangs back, crossing its arms and shifting its weight on its hips. "Relax, kid, believe it or not, I'm not here to hurt you. I was raised up to give you a message."

"Raised," Adam repeats, unable to say more in his disbelief.

"Yeah. As in 'from the dead'? You should be intimately familiar with the concept from what I heard," the creature that isn't his mother says, sounding bored. Then it smirks. "From what I've been told, you're supposed to be way down under."

By now, Adam has backed himself out of the kitchen and into the living room. He comes up against the grate of their smallish fireplace; his head smacks on the ornate metal clock some great-aunt had left his mother. "Who told you…?"

"The one who sent me," the creature says, advancing on him again in a slow saunter. Although it told him it wasn't going to harm him, he doesn't believe that for a minute. "He said something about there being some kind of bond between us, me having killed you and all. Apparently residual terror helps make the message stick – personally, I'm not seeing it, but I'm not going to turn down a chance to be back here for a bit."

Adam's eyes flick again toward his bag. He wonders if anything in it would help him if he decided to make a break for it – but these things are fast, he remembers.

"You know, this is really a nice place," the ghoul observes, looking around. "We were planning to stay here a bit after everything. Keep you and your mom on ice for as long as we could." It snorts humourlessly. "Of course, then my sister got the bright idea to call up your dick brothers and things took a bit of a downturn."

"Excuse me if I don't feel sorry for you," Adam mutters tonelessly.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" it retorts bitterly. "You never knew your family. Not really. I was old enough to remember my father dying, thanks to your dad, though I wasn't there to see it. But courtesy of that asshole Dean, I remember what my sister looked like having her brains blown out." It glares at Adam. "My entire family is gone just because some creep with a vendetta decided we should be punished for living as we were meant to live."

"I don't care – I never cared," Adam growls his anger helping him find his voice again. "I was happy not knowing about any of this supernatural crap, and then a bunch of horror show freaks end up hauling me into this mess."

"Trust me, if I had known the true psychosis that is the Winchester family, I would have convinced my sister to go far, far away," the ghoul tells him earnestly. "Somewhere people wouldn't notice us – like Toronto, or Washington. Instead, I got stuck in the middle of a damn holy war."

"Can you either give me the message you were supposed to give or eat me? Or something?" Adam asks, really not quite sure where the bravado is coming from. He wasn't exactly been very brave the first time around. "This heart-to-heart with the thing that killed me? Not so much with the fun."

The ghoul considers him, almost contemptuously, and then goes on as though it didn't hear him. "You get how screwed up they are, right? I got to walk around as you for a bit while they were here – and boy, that was a trip. They really, truly believe the crap they do. I thought my sister and I were going all-out on the revenge kick, but your folks? They _breathe _revenge_._ The things Sam told me…" It shook its head. "I could almost feel sorry for you. You know, if I wasn't dead."

"My heart bleeds for you – what's the message?"

"'Don't die'."

"Huh?"

"That's the message. 'Don't die'."

"A little late for that, don't you think?"

"Apparently us making filet mignon out of you and your old lady was in the books," the ghoul shrugs. "You were supposed to die. And you were supposed to be brought back – regardless of all the Apocalypse stuff and being Michael's prom dress – speaking of, what was that like? Down where I am, we only get the second-hand gossip – demons are pretty bad when it comes to reliability – I need some stories to bring back with me."

"Get bent."

The ghoul chuckles. "You know, you're a lot more fun this time around. I almost wish I could kill you – except I can't. Because they'll just bring you back."

"Who will?" Adam grunted.

"Well, if it's not the angels, it'll be someone else. Probably the same someone who brought you back up this time."

"The one who gave you the message –"

"Nope. Wasn't him. But if it is what I think it is, then there's a lot of trouble in your future," the ghoul tells him. "Something big is coming. Something even creatures like me can sense down where we're all cooling our heels. And whether you like it or not, kid, you're involved. So you'd better get ready." It smirks at him. "And try not to die this time."

And Adam is suddenly alone again, staring at a spot where the monster that killed him disappeared from.

(*)(*)(*)

Dean arrives in town by seven o'clock that evening, but spends another hour driving around before he gets up the nerve to enter Lisa's neighborhood. Even after parking a ways from her new home, it takes him another hour to talk himself into going up to her house. By some miracle, no one appears to accuse him of stalking or casing the joint.

The house itself is nothing special, and familiar only in the most passing sense that he's been here once before, ironically, also when he was at an all-time low. The place resembles all of the other bungalows on the block, differing only in the few cracks in the stone foundation and the peeling varnish on the heavy wooden door. The porch lights are unnaturally bright, although that might just be his exhaustion talking, and they illuminate a nicely cut lawn that's still damp from on-and-off rain. A skateboard is thrown haphazardly next to a bed of newly budding flowers and the minivan in the driveway has a grounding strap.

He can see through the window, taking in light and movement; the kid is there, head bent over what's probably homework, and there's Lisa – moving around the kitchen, talking on the phone as if there's nothing in the world to worry about.

He swallows the lump in his throat, knowing this is his last chance to make a decision now. Unable to make it himself, he reaches into the glove compartment, looking for the little hip flask of whiskey he always keeps there for emergencies –

His fingers brush against something cold and angular, and he frowns in confusion as he draws it out.

For a moment he can do nothing but stare at the small, horned piece of solid brass in his palm and wonder how it got into his glove compartment without him noticing when he remembers for a fact dropping it into a motel room trash bin in New Hampshire.

He clenches his fist around it, tightening it until the horns press painfully into his palm, and he thinks back to the Christmas that Sam gave it to him. The warmth of that memory is superimposed over another, of Cas practically throwing it back to him and telling him that it's worthless. Of his own agreement, bitterness and hopelessness churning within him.

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that Sam probably fished it out. He probably kept it on him, because Dean's been through the glove compartment enough in the last few months to know this wasn't there before. Which means Sam probably carried it with him up until the last time they were together, maybe shoved it in there while they were driving to Detroit –

He opens his hand again, stares down at the amulet; it's a solid reminder of Sam, however worthless it might have been in the search for God. He thumbs over the face, about to loop the necklace over his head, when he remembers Lilith and Death's warning. He remembers Sam's promise.

Slowly, methodically, he puts the amulet back into the glove compartment and closes the flap.

He wants to save Sam, he does – but for now, even if it's just for tonight, he's going to do his best to honor his promise to Sam. Screw Death and screw demon bitch messengers. He knows he's been fighting this since the minute he left Stull, but for right now, he's going to try.

He hauls himself out of the Impala and before doubts can arise again, he is standing on the front porch. He considers the twinkling balls of light that are distorted through the small windows of the door and finally brings himself to knock.

Immediately he feels like running, except before he can make his legs move, he sees her. It's the exact moment when she sees him, and recognition flares in her eyes before giving way to something else he has no name for.

Then she is slowly pulling open the door, gazing up at him as though she's seeing someone who just rose from the grave – and he knows that look, having seen it a few times and worn it himself a few more. He wonders if she's been watching the news reports of all the crap going down across the world, maybe even imagining him in the middle of it.

The thought of her worried over him, despite everything, brings a flicker of warmth back to his numb self. It helps him to force something to his face, an approximation of his usual confident smile. "Hey, Lis."

She looks him up and down again, still in some kind of disbelief, before the tension eases out of her shoulders. She breaths, "Oh, thank God." He doesn't have the heart to tell her God had nothing to do with it as she recovers herself and peers up at him intently. "Are you alright?"

'How many ways are there to say 'no'?' Dean wonders idly, opening his mouth to answer; for a second he can't find the words. He looks away, drawing on whatever strength remains in him because he needs to get this out. The smile is painful for him to maintain, but he clings to it with determination.

"Yeah," he murmurs hoarsely, and even as he says it knows he's convincing no one. He avoids her gaze. "Uh, if it's not too late…I…" He feels his voice breaking with strain, "I think I'd like to take you up on that beer."

He's seconds away from the emotional dam inside him disintegrating. Everything and nothing depends on what she will say next, and he fully expects her to tell him it isn't a good idea. She has her kid to look after, and allowing someone like him into her house, even for a few minutes isn't what he expects her to do.

But she smiles at him, and nods; the motion tinged with relief and that other indescribable expression.

"It's never too late," she tells him softly, her words a promise as she motions for him to come inside; to come close.

He steps over the threshold, and to his surprise she catches him up in a hug. The embrace is soft yet firm, and he holds her tightly even though she isn't the one he wants to be holding right now. He presses his face into her shoulder and her hair, breathes in the smell of coconut shampoo and orange blossom perfume and something uniquely female, and feels himself begin to give. Maybe she senses it, or maybe she's still going on what she saw in his face, because she shushes him comfortingly, holding him even closer. "It's okay, Dean. It's going to be okay."

Which is when he finally feels the tears coming and he lets himself go. He lets himself go completely for the first time since losing Sam, the strain of holding himself together melting away. Because for now, there is nothing left to do and no other purpose for him other than to stand here and be held.

For a long time, he simply stands in the doorway while Lisa cradles him and he sobs like a child.

(*)

Sam spends the cab ride to Lisa Braeden's neighborhood deep in thought, barely conscious of the taxi driver attempting to make conversation. It's possibly because of his recalcitrance that the guy speeds off as quickly as he does when Sam asks him to pull over, a few blocks away from the house, not even bothering to count the money. Or maybe he can just smell the lingering scent of Hell on him.

Sam takes his time walking over to the house whose address he looked up on the net before leaving Sioux Falls. He doesn't want to get ahead of himself or let anyone see him until he's absolutely sure of his decision.

He sees the Impala before he sees the house, and a warm rush spreads through his body.

'Dean is _here_.'

He pauses across the street. Lisa's home is different from the one she lived in when he first met her; he supposes the old place had bad memories for her.

Sam gazes intently across the street and takes a series of would-be calming breaths. The air feels cold and sour in his mouth, and the sensation is almost strong enough to eradicate the taste of blood and brimstone that has glazed his entire respiratory system since he woke up in the cemetery.

Almost, but not quite.

The sky is empty – crisp in the way it always is after a storm and with the metallic scent that promises more rain in the future. Sam's light coat is already insufficient protection against the minor chill; he doubts it will fare much better against the rain.

The streetlight beside him flickers and goes out, bathing the small suburban cul-de-sac in a thick blanket of darkness. He's glad for the obscurity it provided, even though it makes it harder for him to see. Years of surveillance, and the odd instance of getting caught at it, has taught him exactly how normal people react to dark-haired, six-foot-four strangers watching them from the shadows.

Sam's body pulses taught with expectation, despite his certainty of his purpose here. He wants to move, to act, but his mind seems to be waiting for some signal first. His eyes remains intent – almost desperate, an outside observer might say – on the sight before him.

Behind the glass of the large casement window, framed by gauze white curtains, he can see three people seated around a polished wooden table. A boy with his back to the street, gesturing excitedly with a fork while the woman at the head of the table reaches forward, probably to stop him from spilling food on the surrounding floor or table. The woman is beautiful, dark haired and dark eyed, and while she is dressed casually, her curves are still noticeable in such a way that she's not exactly ordinary looking.

It isn't these two which drew Sam's attention. His interest is on the third person, the one who doesn't quite seem to belong to the group but who's obviously making a concerted effort to do so. The sandy-haired man grips a bottle of beer so tightly that even in the distance, Sam can see the tension in his wrists. He is talking to the woman and boy, ostensibly intent, a smile that would seem genuine except for the mixture of wistful determination and a glimmer of '_how-the-hell-did-I-get-here'_? It's a look that Sam grew up seeing, even when his brother did his best to hide it.

Sam remains to watch the scene for a full ten minutes, every thought grinding to a halt half-formed as he tries to talk himself into doing what he came here to do. It was so simple, before, when he focussed on the one objective; now that he's actually here, he finds it hard to move.

Dean is keeping his promise, or at least trying to.

Sam can see that his brother is miserable right now, and that this is not the apple-pie life that he wanted. But the woman watching him does so with fondness and during the brief moments that they speak, the boy makes Dean's lips quirk upward, and Sam can see that despite the discomfort now, this could work out for his brother if Dean lets it.

If Sam lets it.

There's the large, nagging possibility that this won't work; that three lives will be ruined instead of one when Dean inevitably realizes he can't do this. But somehow, for Sam, that possibility pales next to the idea that his brother might get out of a life that will see him dead before thirty-five. Dean has the chance for love and for family and for normal; as much as it tears at Sam now, and as close as he is to bounding up the walkway and announcing his presence, the image of his brother smiling without tension, and not drinking himself to sleep every night, or worrying about whatever else the universe had decides to throw at him is too tempting to resist.

Sam finds himself back to that frame of mind that he was in when he first forced Dean to promise he would leave hunting behind.

Bobby and Jake were right.

Going after Dean now is stubborn and selfish, completely invalidating what Sam sacrificed himself to do.

Dean looks up from his conversation, suddenly – almost hopeful – as though aware of the intense scrutiny being directed at him.

Sam moves with a quickness born of years of training, slipping into the shadows lest he be spotted before the time is right.

What seems like hours, but is really only seconds tick by, and he peeks around the streetlight. His brother has returned his attention to the woman and child, a thoughtful frown on his face as he takes a sip of beer.

Sam lingers for another few moments, drinking in the sight of his brother surrounded by all things normal and pretends that he can see Dean a few months or years down the road, content and safe, surrounded by people who care about him and who will never put him in danger.

And then Sam turns and walks away.

(*)

Adam's mother's plot is plain and unassuming, and completely unlike how Kate Milligan was in life. He's pretty sure that if she had ever seen it, she would have laughed despairingly.

Mom once told him that if anything happened to her, she wanted him to take her ashes to anywhere outside of the continental US and scatter them to the wind. They were always too poor to travel, and when Adam left for school it was the first time he ever left the state; Mom never even got that far in life. It makes him clench his teeth together in anger, knowing that not only could he not protect her in life, but he couldn't carry out her wishes in death.

Sam told him that he and Dean had burned Adam's and his mother's remains when they had discovered him, and whatever is now buried beneath Adam's feet is what little the coroner could gather together to cremate. It's hard to reconcile that knowledge with the impish smile his mother always wore, no matter how tired she was.

He wouldn't have known where his mother was buried if he hadn't stopped into one of the local diner's that morning for breakfast. After recovering from her shock at seeing Adam in after so long, the waitress at Cousin Oliver's expressed her regret for what had happened to his mother and mentioned that she had attended the funeral, along with most of their small community. He'd managed to skate over the details of where he had been the past year and learned that his mother's remains had been put to rest in the local cemetery.

He wonders if he should even bother going back to school. He knows his grades were excellent – if he feels like explaining that he took time off following his mother's death, he could probably convince the administration to allow him to return. Obviously, he would gloss over the whole being dead angle during that interview, but he could probably swing it. He was a scholarship student before, so he would have to get a job to put himself through school, because he knows Mom didn't have enough put away to cover it, and it probably went to paying off outstanding bills and the mortgage –

As he's running over all of this in his mind, he thinks suddenly that as much as these ideas are possible, he doesn't really want them any longer.

Yes, he would love to go on and become a doctor the way he always wanted, but he also knows he's nowhere near the right frame of mind to do it. Something hums in his blood, making him restless, and he wonders if it's coming back from the dead or just knowing what he knows now.

The ghoul's words echo in his mind, and he knows he certainly doesn't want to die again, but he also knows he's been given a second chance for a reason.

Unexpectedly, the hairs on the back of his neck prick up, as though he's being watched. He squints in the direction the sensation is coming from and feels his eyes widen incrementally.

On the narrow road leading through the cemetery, a figure leans against an old black GMC pick-up. It takes Adam a few seconds to place it; he remembers that John Winchester drove one like it the last time he came to Windom when Adam was seventeen. It wouldn't surprise him if it's the same one.

Hefting his bag, he wanders down through the rows of headstones and stops before Sam.

"You came back," he says unnecessarily, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. He's afraid to sound like a part of him hoped Sam would come back (which he totally didn't).

"Yeah," Sam agrees, looking awkward and completely uncomfortable.

"How'd you know I was here?"

"Had a hunch when you weren't at your house," Sam shrugs. "It didn't take more than a quick Internet search to find out where your mom was buried."

Adam nods, pursing his lips. He glances over at the pick-up, sees that there is no one there, and then asks, "Where's Dean?"

"Still in Indiana."

This surprises him. "What'd he say?"

"I didn't speak to him," Sam mumbles heavily, shoulders hunches. "He doesn't know that I'm…that we're…"

"So after all that, you're just going to let him think you're still in Hell," Adam states, disbelieving.

"He has a chance at a life," Sam defends, although he sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than explain anything to Adam. "All I ever wanted for Dean was for him to be safe and happy. And he can be now, so I walked away."

"And you came here?"

"I came to say goodbye. I don't think I'll be passing through here again," the taller man says quietly. "Don't figure you want me here anyhow, so I'm just going to wish you luck and get on the road. Apparently there's a werewolf up in Washington State that Bobby wants me to look into."

Adam hesitates. "So…you're going back to…what you did before."

"Yeah."

"No 'normal' for you, huh?"

"No," Sam says, sounding sure. "I don't deserve it. I'm not like Dean – God, he deserves more than normal after everything I put him through. Same for you, even though we never really had a chance to – you know." He shrugs, helpless. "Whatever. I said 'yes' to Lucifer. He might not be a problem right now, but things could have gone a lot worse than they did. I've got a lot to make up for."

Adam frowns and for the first time since waking up in some Kansas graveyard actually looks at the brother he never knew he had. He notices the stubborn set to his jaw and the earnest expression on his face, sees that he really wants to make things better. The way he holds his shoulders tells Adam just how far he'll go to do it – and hey, this is the guy who fought the Devil and got the upper hand for a few minutes, right?

He's not sure he'll ever like Sam – there's too much water under that bridge and a lot of daddy-issues that will cloud any kind of relationship between them – but he finds older man's certainty at his place in the world oddly comforting.

"Does that include me?" Adam asks, after a breath.

Sam blinks. "Huh?"

"Back when I first came back, you said if you knew I existed, you would have found me," Adam says slowly, trying to keep his voice level. "The way I figure, me getting killed because Dad was crap at tying up loose ends means the Winchester family owes me a bit. And you're here, so…make it up to me."

"Adam…"

"I know what I said before, but that was…before," Adam continues, dogged. "I really doubt I have to worry about being eaten again, but I'm beginning to see how bad our luck can be – and I think I have enough of it that I shouldn't be taking any chances."

Sam gives him a hard look.

"I'm going to tell you what Dean said the last time we came through here," he says in a low voice. "He said that Dad didn't want you to have this life. He was protecting you – and maybe he should have done a better job so that you could at least defend yourself, but he didn't want you to be involved in the crap that he was into." His expression softens somewhat. "Dad didn't have a choice with me and Dean, but you – you can still go to school and become a doctor. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Why? Are you looking for revenge?" Sam wants to know. "Because that'll just get you in a whole other kind of trouble. Trust me; I started the Apocalypse because I couldn't stop with the revenge. And even if you find it, it's never, ever over. So if that's your reason for wanting to come along –"

"I don't want another kid like me to get royally screwed over by the things he doesn't know about," Adam snaps. "That's why I want to do this. Whatever it takes to keep that from happening, I'll do it. I want to do it."

Sam inhales, long and slow, examining Adam with a frown. "Are you sure?"

In reply, Adam walks around the back of the truck, shoves his bag under the tarp of the truck bed beside Sam's, and sends Sam a challenging look. "Werewolf, huh? Silver bullets, right?"

Sam relaxes a bit. "…Yeah."

Adam nods as he wrenches open the passenger door. "We've got work to do."

* * *

To be continued…

* * *

CAST LIST:  
_Starring_  
Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester  
Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester  
Jim Beaver as Bobby Singer  
Misha Collins as Castiel

_Guest Starring_  
Jake Abel as Adam Milligan  
Aldis Hodge as Jake Talley  
Sierra McCormick as Lilith  
Dedee Pheifer as Kate Milligan  
Demore Barnes as Raphael  
Anna Friel as Oriphiel  
Elaine Hendrix as Suriel  
Sebastian Spence as Zadakiel  
Cindy Sampson as Lisa Braeden


End file.
